Blight Fill
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: Different women, with no real connection to each other, but with one thing in common: they are Grey Wardens...Snapshots in the lives of Team Grey and rated T because the road to saving the world is not always nice.
1. A Story To Tell

A/N: Well and you know the usual...Bioware owns. I'm just frittering about as usual...

-oo-

**Chapter 1 – A Story To Tell**

The sharp scent of dust burned her nostrils. Even her throat felt gritty; too parched for even the simple act of swallowing. She couldn't remember when she'd last had a drink. Or a meal or…she hadn't even had a chance to eat at her own banquet held in her honour. She'd been too busy running errands, running after her two brothers, jumping – high and frequently - for her father to do his bidding like the obedient, _good _daughter that she was…because she would have done _anything_ for her father.

Mostly...

She'd met the Darkspawn almost immediately after the last echoing boom had faded from the great iron doors closing. She'd been plunged into near darkness, the only light to see by a couple of sputtering oil lamps and the phosphorescent seams of yellow lyrium in the old highway walls…

Calea fell against the old road marker, trying to pick herself up again and finding it even more difficult this time. The oozing gash on her right leg reminded her how close she'd come to that fate worse than death and she made an extra effort to rise, pushing herself upwards and stumbling on.

There had only been three or four of them, being too busy fighting them off to stand and count them accurately. While she'd been grateful she hadn't been wearing her constricting armour, she'd also cursed the fact that she had been without _any_ kind of protection.

She knew she'd been tainted after she'd run, feet slipping, sliding and tearing over broken rock and jagged stone. If there had been more Darkspawn to follow, they could have done it by the trail of blood she'd left behind.

They hadn't. That had seemed to be _it_…or so it seemed, but it was only a matter of time before the poison crawling through her veins would start to call to them. The Grey Warden had told her there was a Blight on and if there was a Blight, the Darkspawn would be breeding.

Calea was quite confident she wasn't ready for parenthood. Yet.

But Harrowmont had told her that the Grey Wardens were here, _some_where and if she could get to them, find them somehow, she might have a chance at survival. Clearly, he hadn't figured on the Darkspawn getting to _her _first. With nothing to her stolen name but some thin sacking, a short sword and her father's old training shield, she had searched nonetheless. It had seemed as good a way as any to pass the time…

The taint now burned her from the inside out, causing muscles to seize and her limbs to feel heavy and alien and…did she just drop her sword? There was a sound; metallic, clanging on stone but it did not sound familiar.

"Maker's breath! It's a dwarf!"

Calea's vision flickered purple and red. She could…_sense_ them.

"My Lady Aeducan!" A deep voice; so like her father's; worried and surprised. "How did you come to be here?"

Her sight snapped into focus. She stared incredulously at the tall human, taking little notice of the others behind him gaping at her as though encountering dwarves randomly in the Deep Roads was a rare occurrence.

"Made a wrong turn to the costume ball…" She surprised herself by speaking clearly, but what the _sodding stone_ did he mean 'how did you come to be here'? Were all humans so unobservant? How else could a former member of the royal family come to be wandering around in the Deep Roads looking like a Brand with the pox?

"It seems you have quite the story to tell." His name was…Duncan, she remembered. It was the sort of name she associated not with the famed Grey Wardens but some kind of…confectionery, or some kind of device for extracting dead things out of drinking wells with.

"I have…" She raised a grubby hand. "I have…quite a number of…" _hurrk._ _Splatter, splatter…splorch._

She'd thrown up all over his boots. And then…she fell into her puddle of vile, blackened vomit, her last thought being that she wished she could see Bhelen right now. So she could throw up on him too. A lot. And then maybe smear his ugly fake-Surfacer-tan-face into it.

-oo-

The rat had a tiny pink nose. It was scarred, Talion noticed; some battle trophy from a previous fight. Lying on its side; its breathing laboured. Talion watched the last of short life drain from it, stroking its back in what she hoped was a comforting manner until the last choking coughs heralded the end of its existence. Her head tilted against the stone as she continued to watch the creature in her lap, until all warmth had dissipated and its limbs began to stiffen in death.

Her gaze stretched to the small scrap of a window high above; barely a tear in the metre-thick walls of the prison tower. Her thoughts ambled to the chain of events that had led to her being here.

She supposed, in hindsight that it could have been worse. It could have been _her _that had been dragged first into Vaughan's room. Of course, the logical part of her reminded, if she _had _been first, her cousin's maidenhood might have remained intact…unlike Vaughan's…everything else.

Honestly, who knew humans had the same colour blood as they? And so much of it too?

He'd made such a _funny _noise when she'd made that first cut. Soris had gone pale when he'd realised what she'd done, but Talion hadn't cared. She'd wanted to make sure Lord Vaughan would never be able to do to another girl what he'd done to Shianni.

And then she couldn't stop.

Everything her mother had taught her had come back in a single, blinding moment that had lasted until the expensive Orlesian rugs had been soaked with blood and the walls spattered with gore and the partially-digested contents of their stomachs. Vaughan had screamed the most…almost as if he'd been _scared _of her. Which was stupid. No one was scared of _Elves_.

Talion laughed; the sound echoing from wall to wall twisting as it journeyed into a bitter, hysterical noise. It only ended when it was replaced by the sound of the key turning in the lock. Metal whined and the door scraped open.

"On your feet, knife ears!"

Talion sighed. Scooping the dead rat from her lap she balanced it on her shoulder and stood. The prison guard did not seem to notice, shrinking back from her as she passed through the door.

"Maker's breath, she stinks!" Another guard held out manacles, stretched far in front of him, his nose screwed up into a bulbous raisin on his scarred, ugly face. Talion merely stared. _He should talk…_she observed, wrinkling her own nose. He smelled of human sweat, sour, stale ale and bad breath. Humans, she found, did not only bleed _a lot, _but they perspired more; the grunting, damp, stinking beasts that they were…_and people call Elves animals…_

"Down 'ere…" The second guard gestured for her to follow, with gloved hands pinching at the end of his nose still. The three of them traversed damp stone and rotting straw past cells both occupied and empty, until they reached a set of narrow iron doors at the end of a dim corridor. Opened by unseen hands beyond, Talion's eyes were blasted by bright sunlight, stinging and burning. She flinched, prodded forwards by something sharp and cold at her back. She stumbled, steadied herself quickly, the overexposed landscape before her dimming as her light-abused eyes became accustomed to the daylight.

It was just dawn.

A small gathering of people shifted their feet on the far side of the grimy quadrangle, including - Talion saw with sinking heart - her father; his face pensive and lined with worry. In pride of place was the raised wooden structure of the gallows, arm stretched high against the blush of the early morning sky like a maiden awakening from slumber.

Fascinated, Talion wandered forward, only to be grabbed by the ear and told roughly to remain still. Her father approached, accompanied by a human dressed in robe-like armour. Talion smiled in greeting because she'd been brought up to be courteous. She remembered apologising to Lord Vaughan's carcass for the mess she'd made though really, it hadn't been _her _blood messing up the place.

She'd hardly bled at all.

Voices buzzed around her head. Her father reached forward for her hand.

"Oh hullo Dad," she smiled at her father. "Guess what _I'm_ doing today?"

"…the Rite of Conscription is ours to invoke…"

"I've always wanted to be taller," Talion said thoughtfully. "How much taller do you think hanging's going to make me?"

"Then take this filth away and be done with it!"

"Ah, child…"

Talion hung her head at her father's tone, barely aware of the manacles being removed from her bruised wrists.

"This is not the life I would have wished for you," he was telling her, one hand resting on the top of her head, "but if it means you have a chance to live outside these walls, you must take it and learn to live it the best you can."

She raised her head. "Huh?"

"You are to come with me to Ostagar," the robe-wearing human was speaking to her, "to be a Grey Warden," he added. "Our Order could certainly do with a woman of your talents."

_Grey Warden…?_ Talion cocked her head at the human, staring until she reminded herself that it was rude to stare. _Talents_…? She hoped that didn't mean weird things with cucumbers and other men with badly-trimmed beards. No, he explained. No cucumbers. A Blight threatened Ferelden and more Grey Wardens were needed to fight this scourge. He'd been impressed with the tale of her rescue and escape; had known her mother Adaia in her youth. Unable to recruit the mother, he was now honoured to conscript the daughter.

_Oh…I see._ Reaching up towards her shoulder, Talion idly stroked the dead rat still there. "Brilliant…" she murmured.

"Only," she added, her rumbling stomach giving support to her statement, "Can I have the cucumber anyway? I'm dead starving…"

-oo-

"Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?"

The quill in Jowan's hand ceased its studious scratching across the parchment. His eyes slid towards the young woman who had just spoken and then towards Senior Enchanter Lhambra at the far end of the room.

It was easy to see who the object of Ella's torment was from the hue of the man's skin, never mind the heat radiating from his intense blush. Jowan groaned inwardly. The individual was not another Apprentice, but one of the Templars on duty; a new one…_What was his name again? _Ser Cupboard? Ser Collar? Ser Cabbage?

"Well you do have beautiful eyes, Ser Cullen," Jowan heard Ella say.

The name supplied, Jowan slapped the table, "Ah! That's the name!" he heard his voice say _out loud._

"Apprentice Jowan!" Senior Enchanter Lhambra's sharp voice called across the room suddenly bereft of idle yet quiet chatter. "My desk please!"

Heart sinking to his ankles, Jowan carefully returned his quill to the ink stand and slid off the bench. It was just _typical _that _he'd _be the one who got into trouble even though it was Majella Amell who'd been the one who'd been poking the hornet's nest. As his dragging feet brought him closer to his sentence, he heard Ella giggle behind him.

"Well you do! And you know what else Ser Cullen? Lots of girls just _love _a man with a stutter. Go on, keep doing it at me. It's so sweet…!"

It was difficult concentrating on what the Senior Enchanter was telling him while Ella's conversation continued with the young Templar just at the edge of his hearing.

"Why don't you think it's alright to speak to a Templar?" Jowan heard Ella enquire, seeing the pout in his head.

"…I suppose you think random, nonsensical utterances during study hall are perfectly appropriate, Apprentice?" the Senior Enchanter's voice sliced at his ears, dragging him back to the mage in front of him.

"Well, no Senior Enchanter, I…"

"It's not like I've asked you to rip my clothes off and ravish me up against the conical flasks, Ser Cullen…"

"And you wonder why others your age have already undergone their Harrowing and not _you_?" Lhambra continued.

"Well, no Senior Enchanter, I…"

"It could break the flasks. We spent all day yesterday sterilising them. Do you realise how much effort goes into blowing those in the first place?"

"If you would pay more attention to where you are and what you are doing, perhaps the First Enchanter might advance you up that list."

"Well, it…there's a _list_?"

"Do _try_ to apply yourself a bit more, Apprentice…"

"And anyway, you're more Jowan's type so…"

"I do not want to have sex with a Templar!"

The conversation in the corner ceased abruptly, along with every other head in the room rising from their text books to stare at _him_. In his peripheral vision, Jowan could see Ella turn; a deep frown carving her forehead into windblown dunes of exasperation. Acknowledging the look he grimaced, his hand going to the top of his head in embarrassment. _Oh…there's me and my lack of inner monologue again, isn't it?_ Ella spread her hands wide at him, shaking her head in dismay.

"_Apprentice Jowan…!_"

Jowan turned back. In attempting to defend his manhood, he'd completely and stupidly forgotten all about Senior Enchanter Lhambra's existence. The elder mage's visage was thunderous; lightning flashes of anger sparking in her dark eyes and her skin suffusing with gathering dark clouds of impatience.

Then just as quickly as it had arisen, the anger vanished. Lhambra lifted her eyes ceiling-wards. "Report to the Chantry, Apprentice…" the Senior Enchanter sighed. "You are to remain there until the supper bell. An afternoon's worth of prayer and quiet reflection will hopefully remind you why the development of single-mindedness is _essential_ in the study and practice of magic." The Senior Enchanter scribbled a rapid note on a small square of parchment and handed it to him. "Take this to the Revered Mother, Apprentice," she instructed him. "With any luck Mother Bon will have you scrubbing every candle holder with a toothpick, along with that new initiate…"

Her words were threatening, but Jowan's heart lightened, cradling the Senior Enchanter's note in his hands like a rare jewel.

"Well?" Lhambra's voice was sharp as a knife again. "Off you trot!"

Jowan didn't need to be told twice. He stopped briefly at his bench to collect his things on his way to the exit; his passage bringing him past Ella.

Half concealed by the Templar she had been harassing, she turned and winked at him.

Jowan resisted the urge to blow her a grateful kiss.

-oo-

"And _this _my darling Bryce brought back from Orlais. The Comte was so drunk he mistook Bryce for the King!"

Aerydd grimaced at the forced titters of laughter floating down the long stone passageway from the direction of the solarium. Pausing under the archway, she and Ser Gilmore shared a brief, pained glance before she shook her hair from her shoulders, bracing herself for the approaching encounter.

"After you, my lady…" Gilmore placed a hand on the door. She placed a hand over his, pulling the door closed.

"No, Ser Gilmore, after _you…_"

"Alas, my lady," Ser Gilmore placed a regretful hand over his heart. "I must return to my duties."

"Coward…" she hissed at him, even her forced confidence failing her. His answering grin however, was unrepentant.

"If we are to have the castle prepared on time for the Arl's arrival, that is," he reminded her more gently.

Aerydd snorted, unimpressed. "You'd think we were preparing for the Empress of Orlais, not one of father's vassals," she sighed. "And no," she added quickly before he could say it himself. "You don't need to remind me how important the Howes and Amaranthine are to this Teyrnir. I just don't see the point in getting so excited about this stupid war."

"You don't find the King's enthusiasm contagious my lady?" Ser Gilmore asked with twinkling eyes.

Aerydd rolled her eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. "Ask me again when our troops begin to return from the field tainted and injured, no longer able to work our fields, Ser Gilmore."

Her childhood friend grimaced in defeat. "My apologies, my lady," he began. "You know I didn't mean…"

"This isn't your fault Ser Gilmore," she reminded _him. _"But the fault of these dark creatures threatening our lands." She sighed, giving his arm a friendly squeeze. "I only hope Arl Howe's vanity extends beyond pleasing the King to _actual _concern for his people. From what I hear, he…"

Her words were cut short. The door to the solarium opened, revealing a surprised Lady Landra and a far too pleased Lord Dairren behind. Aerydd noticed Ser Gilmore stepping hastily from the door, his hand crossing his chest in respectful salute as the party passed by.

"Lady Landra…" Aerydd murmured with a dutiful curtsey.

"Lady Aerydd! This is a lovely surprise! You remember my son, Dairren?"

_I remember all my father's tenants, Lady Landra…_Aerydd thought, sliding a look towards Ser Gilmore, but the blasted man still had his head bowed.

"I introduced the two of you at your mother's spring salon…or was it at the Wintersend Ball? No, come to think of it, I believe it was…"

"It was _sometime, _mother…" Placing his hands firmly on his parent's shoulders, Lord Dairren manoeuvred her firmly into the passageway. To Aerydd he said somewhat apologetically; "My mother is tired. The journey here was a tad…fraught."

"Checkpoints every where," Lady Landra fussed. "One would think we were at war…"

"That's because we _are, _mother," Lord Dairren reminded his mother.

"Nonsense!" Lady Landra retorted. "Your father tells me this will all be over by summer's end." Finding herself well away from her intended target, she resisted being steered briefly to throw over her shoulder: "Dairren's still single too!"

"_Mother…!"_

"Well you are," Lady Landra told her son. "No point dressing the sheep up to look like lamb, dear…"

Their arguing voices disappeared around the corner. Aerydd breathed a sigh of relief, though she knew it was only to be a brief respite. If her father's plans were to be followed, only she and her mother were to be left to entertain Lady Landra. Her mother took far too much delight in reminding her only daughter that she had well and truly reached the age of marriageability. It was even better if someone else did the job for her so the Teyrna could sit back safe in the knowledge that she wasn't the one needing to make the effort.

Aerydd's argument that her life would be better spent looking after all of Fergus' children just didn't cut it any more. Two children supplying two sets of grandchildren were better than just the one. It added variety as well as quantity.

She turned to Ser Gilmore, still the ever dutiful soldier by the door.

"I guess it's too late to disguise myself as one of father's footsoldiers and follow Fergus to Ostagar?" she whispered.

"I heard that!" her mother's voice called from inside the solarium. "Don't make me hide the key to the armoury, young lady!"

Ser Gilmore lifted his head, green eyes sparkling with humour at her.

"It seems your fate is sealed, my lady…" he whispered.

She made a face at him, punching at his arm. "And yours with me, it seems," she reminded him. Receiving his respectful bow, she watched her old friend depart then squaring her shoulders once more, stepped into the room to face her mother…

-oo-


	2. The Bronto In The Room

A/N: Helloo *waves* Wanted to thank all you lovely, wonderful people for reading, reviewing or just generally popping in for a looksee. Your comments are appreciated!

And yes...This chapter does jump around a tad...

-oo-

**Chapter 2 – The Bronto In The Room**

"I wasn't aware that women could be Grey Wardens…"

Ser Jory paused in his speech briefly to slap at the exposed skin on his neck - a pointless exercise under the circumstances – then continued to pick his way over the uncertain terrain. The expression on the young woman's face beside him should have been indication enough that he'd started on a path strewn with prickles, thorns and lurking venomous reptiles (much like the swamp itself), but he'd been too occupied keeping up a constant stream of sound; his voice as a comforting distraction from his surroundings. He was a Redcliffe lad; born and raised. Growing up around Lake Calenhad he was used to watery environments, but this swamp was unearthly; eerie; every sound alien to his town-attuned ears.

The combined weight of his armour and arms weighed him down, bogged his feet in ground that wasn't so much ground as a thick suspension of rotting peat, rancid water and slime. It wasn't just the cold and the damp that seeped through mail, leather and linen that bothered him, or the insects that buzzed around his head in sucking, biting clouds. They usually found their way in, in any case through convenient crannies and gaps to attack him beneath his armour. Also true, the sight of what was left of the King's patrol did unnerve him, as it was ample evidence of the Darkspawn presence in the area. Seeing the dismembered corpses suspended from makeshift gibbets and other dead strewn like confetti across the landscape added to his jittery nerves.

He did not have much confidence in the boy that he and others had been handed over to for apparent 'safekeeping'. The lad did not show any of the obvious hallmarks of an individual that had served an appropriate period as squire to a knight though Jory grudgingly admitted that despite the inelegance of the young Grey Warden's use of sword and shield, the boy still managed to despatch a reasonable number of the dark creatures.

In addition, the presence of the criminal did nothing to ease Ser Jory's misgivings either. The Grey Wardens must be so desperate for numbers that they would recruit an individual with more talent for weaselling his way out of a situation than at actual combat. The man preferred to remain at the rear with bow and arrow than engaging directly and manfully with the enemy.

The thrill and honour Ser Jory had felt when he had been chosen as a Grey Warden recruit had long since faded in the company of these amateurs, leaving him puzzled and acutely disappointed. He'd worked hard to win the notice of Warden Commander's eye; to impress the famed Grey Wardens with his skill and experience and yet he was still considered only as worthy as a common thief and a…

"…and a Mage too…"

He did not understand why this mere slip of a creature, dressed in impractical, heavy and brightly coloured yellow brocade had chosen to dog his every step.

"It's not that I have anything against mages precisely…" he was quick to add, because mages were mercurial creatures and for all the combined discomfort of the swamp and the threat of death by Darkspawn, this _girl _unnerved him the most.

Ser Jory wished she would at least keep her distance. Thrice now she'd mistakenly blasted him with a stray spell; his armour still crackling from the last lightning strike, causing the scant hairs on the top of his head to stand at right angles to his skull.

"_I _would have thought that having a mage in the ranks of the Grey Wardens was something of a risk…"

"There's a _cow_ in the middle of the swamp," the mage exclaimed suddenly, pointing to a bloated shape just to their right. "Can anyone tell me _why_ there's a dead cow in the middle of a swamp?"

The thief halted to throw an amused glance over his shoulder. "Perhaps it wandered off a field somewhere," he suggested. "Looking for swamp daisies."

The mage knuckled the tops of her hips, glaring at the raven-haired cutpurse. "And why would a bovine with hooves the size and shape of cupcakes feel the need to wander onto unstable, wet land stinking of death and Darkspawn?" she demanded. "Cows aren't given to thoughtful exercises in _logic _certainly," she added somewhat thoughtfully herself, "but they _are_ creatures of instinct."

"Is this really important?" Ser Jory found his voice again. He stared in disbelief at the mage. "I think we have far more pressing concerns than…"

"Darkspawn!" the Warden lad yelled conveniently suddenly; the ground erupting around them removing any doubt from the abrupt claim.

"Ouch!" Ser Jory felt the sting of another spear of lightning grazing his cheek. A moment later a Genlock exploded into tiny, glistening damp fragments nearby. He ducked just in time as the illogical woman swung her wooden staff over her head, his skin burning as fire whooshed from the end of her 'weapon'. Too busy deflecting a stray arrow, Ser Jory missed the second swing, the back of his skull cracking with the force of contact between blistering bone and wood.

"Clear!" the Warden-child announced, striding towards them. "Anyone hurt?"

Ser Jory sheathed his weapon, rubbing at the back of his head. He looked down on the mage to find her smirking at him.

"You…you did that on purpose!" he said, finally realising all those supposedly stray spells had not been so randomly aimed after all.

The mage merely shrugged. "Ah, you just kept getting in my way."

"I was under the impression that I was attempting to steer clear of you!" Ser Jory retorted, the discovery of the mage's vindictive behaviour raising his ire.

Dismissing his anger with another shrug and a tiny pout, the mage turned to the cutpurse. "Oh! You're hurt, poor petal! Let me heal you…!"

Ser Jory tapped the mage on the shoulder. "I don't appreciate…" She whirled, the staff coming up between them aimed right between his eyes. The end connected with his forehead with a sharp _thunk!_ Ser Jory reeled backwards, eyes watering. "You…!" he began when the Warden decided to intervene.

Interposing his body between the bristling knight recruit and mage, the Warden held up his hands in an additional plea for peace. It didn't help whatsoever that the criminal was finding this whole interlude uproariously funny.

"Can we postpone this little tiff until after we've recovered the Grey Warden documents?" the Warden asked in a condescending, sarcastic tone of voice that Ser Jory took even more offence at. Someone of the Warden's scant years and experience should not find it so easy to talk in such a way to a Knight of Redcliffe and Jory bristled visibly.

The Warden did not back down, eyeballing the knight in clear warning.

"It is quite clear that this mage is unstable," Jory stated, leaning towards the Warden, realising belatedly that the man was actually a couple of inches taller. "Can we trust someone willing to attack her own side?"

"You're an ass!" the mage flung at him, before turning away, quick strides already taking her far from their group.

"Uhh…" The Warden made a skipping motion with his feet, beginning to chase after the girl. "Daveth, you stay with Ser Jory!" he hastily threw over his shoulder, jogging to catch up with the mage.

Ser Jory curled his lip, contemptuous of the lot of them. It was quite clear that the Warden was enamoured of the chit and so he did not expect fair treatment. It was to his own credit Jory believed, that he did not fall so easily under the mage's glamour. _He'd _been brought up a good Andrastrian. Those who were born with the Maker's curse were removed to a guarded Tower for good reason. Snorting his derision, he turned to the thief, who was still grinning.

"This is not funny," Ser Jory snapped.

The thief waggled a finger at him. "Oh yes, it is, Ser Ass!"

Ser Jory shouldered past the sniggering criminal, eager to be on his way once more. He did not appreciate being tested when his abilities had already been proven and amply so. He hoped that whatever ridiculous further testing was required of them would continue to show that he was the superior choice between the three. Once this war with the Darkspawn was over, he could look forward to returning to his wife and child with clear conscience and tales of glory to tell.

-oo-

"Very well! I will speak to the woman, if I _must…! _Get out of my way…fool!"

The gowned man's clipped, angry tones had been quite clear; the noisy stamp of his feet down the stone ramp even more crystal. If she had not stepped hastily to the side, he would have collided with her and then the situation would have gotten even messier.

She watched the man disappear further into the vine-covered wreck of the building; sheathing her daggers as the shadowy gloom consumed him. She had encountered such ruins before in her travels with her clan; the skeletons of a faded, lost past with stories to tell if one had a desire to listen. She had no particular interest in doing so herself, more in need of a hot meal and a wish to suffer the company of these humans and their subservient _seth'lin_ no more than she absolutely had to.

The journey here had been…difficult, more difficult than she cared to admit. The Grey Warden had rushed her here, racing against the taint steadily spreading throughout her body. The Keeper's magic had been effective, but it would last only so long before this ritual that the Warden spoke of needed to be performed to cure her. And that was only if she survived at all. It seemed she was doomed to be cursed without the Grey Wardens and doomed to be cursed _with _them.

"You know…" the other man; the 'fool' that the first had spoken with, strolled down the ramp towards her. "Isn't it _nice _how the Blight brings people together?"

He was tall for a human, broad of shoulder and square of jaw. His eyes from what she could see in the dim light, was the colour of new willow resin. His voice was deep, melodious and mocking.

"You must be the new recruit we've heard so much about," he addressed her; a faint blush colouring his cheeks. 'It's um…nice to meet you," he continued, while _she _continued to assess him. "You know…" he added thoughtfully, "I wonder why there are so few women in the Grey Wardens. Not that I'm some drooling lecher or anything…Uhh…" He took a small, shuffling step backwards. "I'm, um Alistair by the way," he told her. "The newest Grey Warden. And as the most junior member of the Order, I'll be taking you and the other recruits through the, um...preparations for the Joining."

He paused, the colour in his skin deepening.

"Is there…are you…? I'm afraid I don't quite remember your uh, your uh…" his voice was becoming smaller and more uncertain under her steady, silent gaze. "How do I address you?" he squeaked. "Do you have a name I could – possibly – use? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

She sighed. _Best get this over with. _

"Mmft."

His eyebrows drew downwards. Reluctantly, he leaned a little closer. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

She rolled her eyes. "Moppet," she said in a clear voice. "I am called Moppet."

"Ah, _that's _the…" he paused, eyes blinking wide. "_Really?_"

"Really," she said tiredly.

"Oh that's so cu…Uhh…not so cute. Um. I bet it means…I bet it means something incredibly martial and scary in Elven, am I right?"

"No."

"No?"

"It means 'small furry creature of indeterminate origin in size approximating that of an adult's hand'" she explained patiently, her expression unchanging.

There was a long, empty silence that ensued while – inevitably, as always happened – one corner of the human's mouth twitched.

"And your name?" she asked in a bored voice, because she was tired, hungry, aching all over and needed quite urgently to roll into foetal position for a sleep that would last several weeks.

"It's Alistair, as I've mentioned just…now…" he said, wisely keeping a firm lid on his humour. "Oh. Oh! You meant…what I mean…what my name means, you mean? Well it means…it means…um. 'Defender of man'"

Her expression darkened. "Typical," she muttered.

"But you know, in _Antivan _it means 'large flopping fish', while in the common Dwarven tongue it means, it means, it means, 'I've got a great big boil on the end of my left buttock'…" he told her hopefully.

Silence.

More silence.

"Most probably," he added diplomatically.

The lull in conversation that followed filled up with the thunderous threat of extreme dismemberment and much unhappiness followed by unpleasant horrible things of an as yet unspecified nature but promised to be quite thoroughly, agonisingly painful and bloody.

Most probably.

"Are you trying to be funny?" she asked – at last! – the sound of her voice even though veiled in a thousand dire warnings something of a relief.

"Me?" he pointed to himself cautiously, in case she was referring to someone else. "No. No, no, no, no, no, no…I'm not funny at all. At all. Not even close. You'd be surprised how incredibly unfunny I am. Never made a joke in my life, being completely the unfunniest…" He sighed in defeat. "Look, just stab me in the eyeball and be done with it. I know you want to. Go on. You'll feel better, I'm sure."

She frowned at him, her expression causing him to think of small furry creatures no bigger than approximately the size of his hand…and he kicked himself mentally because brain thinking was not good in his case. Brain thinking led to mouth talking and when mouth talked people looked at him funny and then bad things happened.

Usually to him.

Never to anyone else.

Funny that.

"Why would I wish to sully my blade with your eye juices?" she asked him, sounding almost _interested, _as though they were discussing the weather and not his impending castration and dismemberment.

"Yes," he agreed _too _hastily "Why would you? Might not get the stain out afterwards. Ha, ha…I mean haaa…damn." Another mental kick. "Why don't we find the other recruits? Or have you found them already?"

"Was I supposed to look?"

"No, no. Not particularly," _Too fast again!_ "I just thought in your travels about camp that you might have encountered them and maybe threa…I mean, introduced yourself; said 'hello', exchanged friendship bracelets, that sort of thing." Was he rambling again? Rambling was also not good.

"I just got here."

"Oh. So no pillow parties just yet then?" _Yup. Definitely rambling now. Perhaps a change of subject might be in order. _"Is there. Um. Anything you wish to ask of me?" _A pint of my blood? Head on a platter?_

She cocked her head to the side, the movement catching a single ray of sunlight streaming through the broken stone roof. Alistair's breath caught in surprise. What he thought was darkish sort-of-blonde hair was actually a silver-blue; her penetrating, bored eyes the same exact hue. It gave her an even more terrifying appearance. Against the deep tan of her skin it was rather eerie and…weird in a somewhat beautiful way…

"A question?" she asked.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak any more.

"Fine," she stated. She stepped forward, gazing up at him from beneath the silvery fringe of hair that fell haphazardly across her face. Alistair steeled himself, uncomfortable at her proximity. He'd never been allowed this close to a female before. It was…not wholly unpleasant certainly but was opening up new worlds of unknown dangers he'd rather not have to deal with just yet.

Her eyes puckered slightly at the edges. Her lips compressed, then…

"Why do you smell so _diseased_?" she asked.

_Oh yes_, Alistair told himself. He was a dead man walking…

-oo-

At least…the feeling of falling into the sky had ceased…Calea chanced a brief look upwards, reeling backwards, overwhelmed by the never ending clear blue of absolute nothingness. _Alright…not quite…yet…_

She tried to focus on her surroundings, but she did not trust the wild, overgrown _green _spaces that chirruped and squeaked and rustled in suspicious ways. Her hand cramped; constantly gripping the handle of the wide-bladed axe the Grey Warden had found for her. It had been enchanted to be lightweight, the grips easy to hold, the blade itself keener than wyrm-light, but she had been unable to let it go.

And she could feel the taint tapping insistently at her insides, calling; always calling.

"You okay?"

Calea turned. She could not remember the man's name, but to her eyes all humans looked the same; haggard and thin-nosed. This one was even more so, having no hair on his head at all but a shine like polished marble. His eyes were the colour of that hungry sky above them.

She nodded, turning away, stumbling into the back of the Warden Commander's legs. She bounced off, caught by Warden Marble and set back onto her feet. Their group had reached some kind of encampment; wooden structures had been erected on either side of their path and she realised rather foolishly that there were soldiers here, patrolling the area. A flash of golden light redirected her attention to an approaching group of men, the lead human clad in armour of highly polished volcanic aurum.

"Ho there, Duncan!"

Calea's curiosity piqued at the greeting. She glanced at the Warden Commander, catching the briefest flicker of irritation in the older man's time-worn face. Because he had been addressed so familiarly, she wondered, or was it because Duncan did not wish to meet with this particular individual? While it was interesting to ponder, the stonework behind the new group was even more arresting. Quietly, Calea stepped away from the Warden Commander's side, seeking a better view. Across the wide bridge that could fit several fully grown Brontos side by side were the remains of a city of bleached stone. It was impressive in scale for humans, conceding that it might not even look out of place _underground_.

But this was not underground, she reminded herself, a second prod at her back forcing her to suppress the sudden urge to be under good, solid rock again.

The man in the golden armour had apparently been addressing her.

"Allow me to introduce King Cailan." Duncan gestured helpfully towards the golden man; Calea finding she had to look up, and up, and up and wondering how humans coped having to pump blood and air such long distances. Perhaps that was why they lived so close to the sky...all that extra air was needed up there.

"There's no need to be so formal, Duncan," the human king chided the Grey Warden Commander, though the man was laughing while he did so. "We'll soon be shedding blood together after all."

He looked down at Calea, the look in his blue eyes obvious as he surveyed her. "Ho there friend," the king smiled his charming smile. "Might I know your name?"

A single eyebrow rose on Calea's pale forehead.

She met his blue gaze with a direct, clear green look of her own. "Calea, Your Majesty," she responded. "Formerly of the House Aeducan."

"Aeducan?" the king blinked at her. "No relation to King Endrin?" he chuckled. "I suppose that would be quite a stretch!"

"My father," Calea stated flatly, folding her arms across her chest.

"Ah," the king responded.

"It was good King Maric who allowed the Grey Wardens back into Ferelden," Duncan hastily intervened. "And it is by His Majesty's _good will_ that we are here today."

Calea redirected her eyebrow at the Warden Commander. The intent behind his intervention was quite clear. _We owe the King…_You _owe the King…_

"Uh-huh," Calea murmured. "And it's the Dwarven nation that supplies over eighty percent of the metals that go towards the manufacture of your arms and armour I believe?" she told them all cheerfully. "Not to mention, _all _the Lyrium. But…" She scratched her cheek with an idle finger. "I don't expect a Dwarven population _three_ times that of surface Ferelden to – I don't know – _matter _seeing as the majority of us rarely rise any higher than three, maybe four hundred metres below surface soil. Still…" She threw a look at the Warden Commander; a look he completely missed, having sunk his face into his hands. "Thanks for letting me know. I think the Royal Tutors might have missed that bit about _good will_. And stuff."

Calea smiled her own charming smile; one that she had had ample training to achieve and plenty of time – and occasion – to perfect.

"You know," she added thoughtfully. "An incredibly funny joke about tall men and short women comes to mind right about now…"

A sound emerged from the Warden Commander, as though he might be in pain. Calea ignored it, her sunny smile unabated and unabashed.

"However, in the interests of maintaining _good will_, I think I'll refrain from sharing it…"

-oo-


	3. General Dissent

A/N: Welcome to chapter 3, glad to have you along! This update went through several name changes and a complete re-write owing to a sleep-deprived save of a completed document with a blank one…As for the chapter name…weeeeell. Or maybe I should have called this one 'stating the obvious' instead? Hm.

Thank you for reading. I'll stop talking now.

-oo-

**Chapter 3 – General Dissent**

"And I suppose you won't be fighting with the rest of the Grey Wardens, hm?"

Talion stared in what she hoped was a polite way, though a little voice in the back of her head squeaked softly that 'staring' and 'polite' were mutually exclusive terms. She missed Blip; her little companion having disappeared somewhere on the journey from Denerim to Ostagar. She suspected the Warden Commander might have had something to do with that, having mentioned something about the smell. Though, as Talion had as yet to witness the old Grey Warden wash even once in the week and a half it had taken them to get here, he was hardly one to talk.

"I'm not a Grey Warden yet," Talion pointed out helpfully, gazing up in awe at the tall, armoured human.

Ostagar was huge. Talion had never seen anything like it before…which, considering her world experiences to date was not saying much but she was impressed nonetheless. So many people! So much colour! So much activity! There had been _Mages _and _Templars _and strange people in horned hats and brightly liveried messengers criss-crossing and re-crossing and cross-crissing (though, disappointingly, not cross-dressing) from one end of this old, ancient ruin to the other. She'd been abused and cursed at. She'd been stepped on and shoved and a very strange elf had given her a sword…A _sword…_just like that!

The first chance that arose, she would have to send her father a note to let him know how terribly busy being a Grey Warden really was; how exciting! She was really looking forward to being a _real _one soon…

"Yes, but when you _are_ a Grey Warden?" the armoured man asked patiently. "Glory and honour for all…and all of that."

Talion grinned up at him. If Shianni or Soris were here they'd be _kicking_ her about now. Kicking! Such an opportunity! Wasted! But what to ask, she wondered? What to say? On the one hand, the opportunity for such an audience might not ever arise again. On the other, when she had approached the striped tent, it had been out of pure curiosity and an admiration for its restful colour than with any real inkling she might meet its occupant. The last thing she had expected was that the gruff sentry would _actually_ fetch his superior officer and she was hardly prepared for the encounter.

General Loghain Mac Tir! Teyrn of Gwaren! Hero of the River Dane! Current father-in-law to the King he was! It was quite a shock to find that he was still alive, never mind that he was a _real_ person and not just a few wordy paragraphs in one of Sister Theohild's history books. _You're a lot taller than the books say? Who's your hairdresser? If you polish your armour every day, how thin does all that metal get?_

Her options almost limitless, Talion's lavender eyes shone with eagerness to share her thoughts with the human that had taken the time to spend with a mere _elf_.

"You know," she said earnestly. "A couple of teabags ought to fix that."

His raven black eyebrows angled inwards; frown-lines on his forehead increasing. "I beg your pardon?" he growled.

"Teabags," Talion explained patiently. "Shianni swears by them. Only," she leant in solicitously; while _he_ leaned backwards having detected a hint of something…_dead _about her. "You have to make sure they're _cold_ and not straight out of the tea cup. You don't want to go burning yourself."

"No," he told her, scrutinising her open, angular features and finding little there to mock but much to pity. "We wouldn't want that."

Loghain tried to catch his sentry's eye, but the man was diligently not listening to the conversation with the elf, clearly deeming it 'private' and keeping himself out of it. Folding his arms across his armoured chest, Loghain narrowed his eyes at the slender red-head.

"Or a couple of cucumber slices, if you can manage it," she said before he could speak, tugging thoughtfully at the lobe of an ear.

"I see," Loghain glared, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. "You're an idiot."

"Oh no…" she told him with another guileless smile. "I'm from Denerim."

Loghain raised a hand to rub tiredly at his temples. "It seems to me the Grey Wardens must be quite desperate, if they are willing to admit one of your ilk to their ranks."

She gave him an unexpected, agreeable nod of her head. "Duncan was very kind," she said, bright-eyed as ever and completely misunderstanding both the tone of his voice and his words. "I was going to be hanged, but the Warden Commander – that's Duncan – came and said I could be a Grey Warden, even though I'd killed one of the King's Noblemen's sons, and then two of the King's Noblemen's son's best friends, plus a couple dozen of the King's Noblemen's soldiers and unfortunately…" She added, looking downcast. "One of the King's Noblemen's son's Mabari. Or was it one of the King's Noblemen's son's friends' Mabari?" Those uncanny lavender eyes widened up at him. "It went for Soris' gooblies. So it had to die."

What followed was a faithful and enthusiastic re-enactment of the series of events that led to - what Loghain supposed – her death sentence, including the attack by the Mabari. So accurate was her depiction that a passing Ash Warrior stopped briefly, raising two fingers to his mouth to call the Mabari to heel, when the man realised with belated embarrassment that the barking, yipping noise was not a real war hound at all but a leaping red-haired elf entertaining the King's General and he hurried on towards his designated mustering area, hoping no one had noticed his distraction.

Meanwhile, the recipient of the enthusiastic pantomime stared in stunned bemusement, his head reeling for the briefest moment before the steel claws of his mind snapped around his fizzing brain, steadying himself against the bizarre visual onslaught. On first learning this child was their recruit, he had begun to feel the smallest twinges of pity for the Order of the Grey. His personal dislike for the half-Orlesian Warden Commander aside, he'd been contemptuous of the excessive honour the boy-King had granted these Grey Wardens. He'd seen nothing so far to impress him and now he had met their latest recruit, his dislike for the whole lot of them increased logarithmically for prolonging this poor creature's pathetic existence, instead of showing pity and granting her a merciful – and quick - death.

"Can I have your autograph?" she asked suddenly.

"My what?" Loghain barked, thrown off balance by the abrupt request.

"Only…" circling a toe sheepishly in the mud, she cast down her scruffy head again, "I don't have quill, ink and parchment…Oh!" she exclaimed, eyes alight once more. "Would you like to carve it onto my arm?"

It was only then, when she drew a dagger from a scabbard that the sentry came to life, advancing on her while drawing his own sword. Loghain held up his hand hastily, preventing his guard from taking action. Much as he pitied the chit, she was the _Orlesian's _problem, not his.

Looking sternly into the elf's eyes, he told her quite clearly; "No, I would not."

"Oh." Her crestfallen expression almost undid him then. He'd half-raised a hand to pat her on the head, when her face exploded into yet another sudden burst of lightness. "You'd prefer my arse, instead?"

Dropping his head into his hand, Loghain sighed.

"Be off with you Warden!" his sentry – finally! – instructed her. "Haven't you taken up enough of the good General's time?"

"Oh. Um. Yes." Bestowing upon them both an understanding smile, she dropped a wobbly curtsey. "Thank you for your time," she added politely then wandered away, her trajectory taking her towards the Mabari pens. Loghain watched her go, shaking his head in wonder. The Grey Wardens, he concluded, were doomed…and if the boy-King continued to insist on hitching his wagon to the Wardens' star, then it was inevitable that he too deserved to be doomed along with them.

"It certainly takes all kinds, doesn't it General?" the sentry puffed behind him.

Not deeming the question worth the effort of a response, Loghain Mac Tir stepped towards his tent, returning to the relative calm and serenity of his makeshift war room.

-oo-

"…she lives…!"

"…Yeah, who woulda thunk it?"

"…from her melodramatic performance, one would think she'd breathed her last…"

"…you know; a comment like that is _really_ uncalled for…"

"…Welcome Sister. From this day forward, you are a Grey Warden…"

Ella startled at the collection of faces looming above her. She ached all over and there was a sharp pain in her right shoulder, where she had fallen hard onto the wet stones. For the Joining ritual the Grey Wardens had chosen a part of the old temple where the roof had fallen away completely; allowing cold rain to form deep puddles and make everything else – including the gathering of Wardens – uncomfortably damp. Water had seeped insistently through the many layers of her Mage's robe, despite the repelling enchantments laid into the fabric. Worse of all was the lingering taste of the Joining potion in her mouth and if her limbs had been more responsive, she would have stuck a finger down her throat to force whatever horrible concoction she had just swallowed right back up.

_You are a Grey Warden…_

She supposed she couldn't do that now.

The simple act of raising her head seeming impossible, Majella scowled at the expectant faces, wondering whether it would be childish of her to ask for assistance to stand. Certainly, no one appeared to have thought to extend a hand to her themselves. Then a scornful snort nearby arrested Ella's attention. Her stomach twisted with more than the contents of Darkspawn blood, Lyrium and lingering dark magics. Ser Jory stood with arms folded, his eyes heavy-lidded and mouth curved downwards, clearly unhappy that she'd survived along with himself and Daveth.

The thief had taken up position by a pile of fallen roof rubble, his head in his hands and his skin an unhealthy shade of green. He lifted his head briefly with a brave grin despite, managing a thumbs-up gesture of approval. Gathering her skirts, Ella cast a spell of healing over herself and Daveth - pointedly excluding the Redcliffe knight – and rose unsteadily to her feet.

The blonde haired Warden – Angus? – extended a hand to steady her, snatching it back as though he'd realised almost too late that she might be diseased or dangerous or whatever it was almost-Templars thought Mages were.

"I'm glad all of you survived," he told them, the relief in his voice palpable. "At my Joining only one died, but it was…horrible."

Majella inclined her head in agreement. Was there any death not horrible, she thought at him? Of course, a good Andrastian would tell her that the death of the Prophet might have been considered a good thing. Majella not being a good Andrastian _however_, meant that she was free to believe that immolation of a still-living individual – martyr or not - might be a tad _unpleasant_, especially for the immolat-_ee_.

These thoughts and more she kept her to herself, having no opportunity to voice them in any case as the young Grey Warden began handing out some kind of amulet to each of them.

"The last part of the Joining," he explained. "Each of these contains some of the blood, to remind us all of those who did not make it."

Majella looked down upon the tiny glass vial in her palm, suspended from a simple leather rope. It felt warm to the touch; her mage senses detecting the charms surrounding its contents and the delicate glass itself. She couldn't help a small shake of her head. It seemed to her that the power of blood was forever to be a part of her life: blood taken from her when she first entered the Tower of Magi; a leash to keep her tied to the Circle, blood magic that had brought her here; Jowan's betrayal of her trust and friendship still a raw and stinging wound; and lastly this drop of Darkspawn and Archdemon blood; shackling her to the life of a Grey Warden forever more.

Her own blood felt strange…heavy but restless as though someone had taken her and given her such a thoroughly good shaking that all the blood in her veins had turned to bubbles. There was also an even stranger sensation, something she did not realise until her mind 'saw' the Warden Commander return to their little group _before_ her eyes did. She looked up, catching Daveth's eye. He too looked slightly puzzled, tossing off a casual shrug dismissing the event.

It seemed that weird Grey Warden…stuff was expected as far as he was concerned.

"Did you have strange dreams?" he did ask however. "I had a corker of a one with some kind of…dragon…?"

"Such dreams come and go," the Warden Commander explained smoothly. "It is all part of what we as Grey Wardens are."

"You could have warned us," Ser Jory scowled at Duncan. "Surely some kind of preparation…"

"And would you have believed me, Jory?" Duncan asked him, the 'Ser' from the now former-Redcliffe Knight's name glaring in its absence. "Informing you of such things would not have lessened the experience. You – all three of you – have mastered the Taint as so many have done before you. For now, that is all you need to know."

"Yeah," Daveth interrupted with an elbow into Jory's side. "You hear that Warden Ass? You're unique and special, just like everybody else."

Majella stifled a chuckle when Daveth winked at her. The still-scowling Jory turned a petulant shoulder on them all.

"Now…" Duncan continued, resuming control of the conversation. "The King has requested that the new Grey Wardens attend a meeting with him and his chief strategists this evening." He turned to the sandy-haired Warden beside him. "Jory and Daveth will accompany me," he instructed the young man. "Alistair, will you take Majella to the Warden's camp and await us there?"

"She won't be attending too?" Alistair asked before Majella could say anything and she wanted to kick him for speaking for her. She was quite happy to be excluded from any party involving the King, his humourless General and Senior representatives of both the Circle _and _the Chantry. She had encountered Senior Enchanter Wynne earlier in the day and the reunion had not been a happy one. Add to that Jory's resentment for surviving the Joining ritual and his subsequent smugness for being chosen to meet the King…really, the furthest away from the purple circle in this place the better in her opinion.

Duncan provided more fuel for Majella's argument. Shaking his head, he told them gravely; "Considering the Revered Mother's stance on the Circle's presence at Ostagar, it might be more prudent to keep Majella out of her sight for the time being." To Ella, he granted an apologetic grimace. "I am sorry to exclude you, Majella," he told her, "but our own presence here as you are aware, is not wholly welcome by all." He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, giving her an awkward, vaguely fatherly pat.

"I understand…" Majella assured him with a small nod of her own.

Duncan turned back to Alistair. "Warden's camp," he repeated, as though in the belief the two of them – Alistair and Majella – might take it into their heads to go gallivanting about the Korcari Wilds while the others were in important meetings with important people. Highly improbable, Majella thought, considering how tightly the perimeter of the King's camp was controlled by his soldiers.

"And what happens after that?" Alistair asked apprehensively. "Scouting groups have reported the horde approaching close to Ostagar. And the other Wardens…"

"We shall see," Duncan told them all quietly but firmly; cold iron in his voice. Transferring his hand from the Mage to the young Warden, his lips curved in a humourless smile. "We shall see…"

-oo-

The sound of arguing voices in the torch-lit gloom made both Wardens – Commander and new recruit – pause in their footsteps. They exchanged a mutual look of reluctance to proceed, waiting quietly in the shadows in the hope that the voices would show some sign of abating. They did not. If anything, the younger of the two voices became more insistent, angrier; while the older more disdainful and cold; conversation passing into a trade of insults and accusations.

The Wardens could have continued to hang back, but with the crime of being late to an audience with their King looming over their heads, Warden Commander Duncan took a decisive step into the torchlight.

As they approached the still-arguing pair, Duncan lifted the metal scabbard of his sword and deliberately let it fall against the engraved silverite of his cuisses. The resulting clang made both men – King and General – turn at the noise. Both scowled at the interruption, though King Cailan's expression brightened when he realised who the new arrivals were.

"Lady Aerydd…!"

He approached her, hands extended in welcome. Aerydd forestalled any physical contact with him by bowing deeply, arms crossed in salute. The King's smile faded slightly, understanding quite clearly that he'd been foiled in engaging in a warmer form of greeting with one of the prettier of his nobles and ruefully returned her salute. He turned next to Duncan. "Warden Commander, welcome."

Duncan bowed as well, the two Wardens standing well-clear of the long, wooden trestle that was cluttered with maps, parchment, oil lamps and the General's finely crafted collection of carved map weights. The General himself was bent over the table at one end, unfurling a pristine copy of the map of Ostagar and its surrounding wilderness. He studiously ignored the Grey Wardens.

"I am to understand that congratulations are in order!" King Cailan enthused, returning his smile to Aerydd.

The recipient of this enthusiasm swallowed her grimace. She did not feel _special. _Tired, hungry, bereft and confused perhaps. Anything but 'special'.

"Has my brother returned from his scouting mission, Your Majesty?" Aerydd asked, damning protocol for concern over her still-absent sibling.

"No," the king replied with a regretful shake of his head. "Nor do I expect them to return until after tomorrow's battle. I wish I could have given you more news of Fergus' whereabouts, but alas our attention must be given over to the larger picture."

Aerydd nodded. She understood _really, _but still…

"And the Amaranthine contingent?" she found herself continuing, her hearing barely catching the tiny sound of disapproval from her now-Commander at her persistence.

"No, Warden…" the King frowned, sliding a look towards his General. Loghain looked up then, his scowl fixed in place as he gave a slow and decidedly scornful scrutiny of the young woman who returned his glare with a direct and fearless look of her own. There was unyielding steel in that look; and a stubbornness that he not only had seen in his own daughter, but had actively encouraged in his only child.

"What are you implying, Warden?" Loghain asked her. He prepared himself to be disappointed by an inane, childish response but she did nothing of the kind, sweeping a dismissive gaze over him to return to the King. Loghain recalled the events that had occurred in the north of the country…as recounted by Cailan. From the look of her, it seemed the Cousland girl had already assumed the role of Teyrna in her mother's stead. He found it…interesting, but irrelevant.

"You yourself said that every able man and woman is needed now more than ever," Aerydd told him quietly. "And yet you are willing to press forward without Amaranthine _or _Redcliffe?"

"And since when has a Grey Warden _recruit_ become an expert in battle strategy?" Loghain snorted, his contempt laid thick around his words.

"Fifteen years studying beside my brother does not make me an expert without practical experience true," Aerydd conceded, fighting to keep the tremble from her voice. "I beg your indulgence Your Majesty, in allowing me to say that my Fa…" Her voice traitorously abandoned her abruptly; Aerydd's hands clenched into tight balls by her sides, back teeth grinding against an overwhelming surge of pent-up grief. Unable to continue, she could only stand stupid and unspeaking, her brain screaming _why_ with no answer to follow.

Her rescue came from an unexpected source: Teyrn Mac Tir stepped forward with a curl of his lip and a growl of impatience.

"Yes Cailan. Where _is _your uncle?" he demanded. "The call for troops went out weeks ago and yet the Arl has made the very convenient decision to withhold them. One wonders _why_ he would do so, when I thought it was made quite clear that Redcliffe would be needed."

"Again with your conspiracies, Loghain?" Cailan retorted tiredly, indicating by the tone of his voice that this subject bored him beyond bearing. "_I_," he thumbed at his breastplate, "happen to have been the one who instructed the Arl of Redcliffe to stand by and await further orders."

"And yet I'm quite sure I've seen the _Rainesfere_ standard…" Loghain added in a low growl.

The King expelled an impatient breath of air, throwing out his hands. "Huh, knowing my uncle, he probably wants _in _on the glory…"

Anger flared in Aerydd's eyes. "Since when has the large-scale death of loyal Fereldans been _glorious_!" she heard herself snap angrily and tearfully before years of training forced her temper back behind her cracked mask of 'acceptable' behaviour. She bowed her head, immediately contrite. "M-my apologies Your Majesty," she stammered. "Please forgive my outbur…"

"No, Lady Aerydd," King Cailan hastily assured her. "It is I who should apologise if my words make too much light of your recent loss." Turning his attention to his General, he added, "This is _why_ we need the Orlesians, Loghain."

"And I fail to see the connection between the death of Teyrn Cousland and our former _occupiers_, Cailan…" Loghain grumbled with an exasperated roll of his eye.

"_Fine_."

The King started on a long-suffering sigh, caught sight of Aerydd's carefully frozen expression and reined himself in. "We will _wait _for Redcliffe, but no more than we absolutely have to." He turned briefly to a servant; invisible until now. "Send a runner to Redcliffe," he commanded. "And one as well to Arl Howe. If that cur does not send troops in time, I'll have him hanged for treason as well as murder." Raising his eyebrows at his general, he added sourly, "Does that satisfy your Orlesian paranoia, Loghain?"

The General's response was a non-committal snort; the meeting called to an end. In the abandoned silence that followed the King and Teyrn's all too quick departure, Duncan touched Aerydd's shoulder.

"I am sorry," he said softly.

Aerydd shook her head. "No Warden Commander," she told him. "It is I who should be sorry."

-oo-


	4. Beacon

-oo-

**Chapter 4 – Beacon**

"Calea…return to camp and inform Alistair that the two of you will be in charge of lighting the beacon."

"Whut?"

She'd been too busy watching the human king to pay enough attention to the Warden Commander, missing most of his request. Still distracted by the departing party, Calea forced her attention back to Duncan. _By the stone, human males look good from behind…!_ she thought, unable to repress the appreciative snicker as the golden king passed from sight beyond the broken pillars of the old ruin.

"You heard the King's orders," Duncan repeated with a sharp look. "You and Alistair will light the beacon that will signal the charge by the main force."

"Yeah. And?" she asked, her thoughts moving now to the location of the mess tent. Daveth had mentioned something previously about _dinner…_She'd been planning on getting Daveth to show her where that was, except, he was no longer in any condition to do any of that now, being a bit…dead at the moment.

"Will you please inform Alistair?" Duncan's patient voice continued. "I would tell him myself, but I have some matters of urgency to attend to."

Calea stared at the bearded human for a full minute. "Don't you Wardens have _people_ for that kind of thing?"

"Yes," Duncan replied smoothly. "They're called 'recruits'."

"Ah." She pointed to herself. "That would be me I suppose?"

"Well yes," Duncan confirmed with a small, serene nod. "Strangely enough."

"Do I get a banner or a sash or something like the other messengers?" she asked, rocking on the balls of her feet hopefully. "Perhaps a little wooden board with a bit of parchment fixed to it to show I'm the business?

Silence met her request.

"Ah. That would be a 'no', I expect?" she sighed, her question turning out to be as redundant as her title. "And I suppose commandeering one of the king's messengers would be out too, right?"

_Grumpy silence_ this time_._

"Fine," Calea sighed again. "I'll run your little errand. But can I bill you for it later?"

_Honestly, I don't know why I bother…_Calea thought with a roll of her eye at the Warden Commander's expression. Who knew Grey Wardens were so temperamental? Giving the now glowering Warden Commander a jaunty wave, she began ambling towards the Grey Warden campsite.

She spied the young Grey Warden Alistair sharpening his sword by the camp fire. His handsome features thrown into glowing angles by the firelight, Calea wiggled her eyebrows in anticipation, hooking her thumbs into the badly fitting belt at her waist before abruptly throwing herself down beside him.

"You know," she began as he shouted in surprised alarm, sword and whetstone flying into the air. Both landed with a noisy clang across the fire pit. "Sharpening one's sword…you could take that to mean some kind of visual euphemism."

She watched him try to pluck the sword out of the fire. It had landed with the hilt across the flames and so was making every attempt not to cut or burn himself by removing it. She waited until he was seated again.

"Especially when you do it as frequently as you do."

He slid her a look of both petulance and resentment in equal measure. "Oh great…" he drawled unhappily. "Have I missed the notice for 'let's pick on Alistair day' _again_?"

She grinned up at him, completely unrepentant. "Ah…you're adorable," she told him. "Even if you do bear a rather striking and _uncannily_ unexplainable resemblance to the current Ferelden monarch."

There was the slightest pause before he answered and when he did, he'd reached for his polishing cloth and begun working on his sword again; this time to try and remove the soot and ash from the blade. She noticed he'd turned his shoulder on her a little as well and she chuckled to herself at his childishness.

"You always compliment men before kicking them in the teeth?" he asked resentfully.

"Teeth?" she raised her eyebrows at him. "I never go anywhere near teeth with my boot…or knee. Always go for the family jewels. Lowers their re-sale value."

He looked over at her, wide-eyed. "I don't intend to sell my fam…Huh…I think I'm just going to shut up now. Might be less embarrassing all round." He paused, staring into the heart of the fire, brooding it seemed. "On second thoughts, maybe I'll throw myself off the stone bridge. It would hurt less."

"Fine, fine…" she held up her hands in a gesture of peace. "I _won't _pursue the topic of your parentage. Ancestors nutmeat, both _my _brothers are – were - complete _bastards_ and my parents were legally bonded when Trian and Bhelen were conceived and born. It just goes to show…" His response to her attempt at conciliation was another sour look so she continued to grin and continue. "Oh by the way, I have a message: You and I are the happy recipients of the Holding the Torch Trophy," she told him. "To be presented at the Tower of Ishal Ball and Gala Performance later."

"What?" he exclaimed, almost dropping his sword again.

"We've been given the task of lighting the General's beacon…" she informed him briskly, "and no, _that's _not a euphemism either."

He stared at her as though she'd just told him she'd slaughtered all his puppies and turned their pelts into pyjamas.

"I won't be fighting with the other Grey Wardens?" he asked, the look of shock turning into disbelief and a great deal of disappointment. "_Why_?"

"King's orders," she shrugged. "Considering how much you _don't_ look like King Cailan, he probably _doesn't _want a spare just in case the General's badly thrown together strategy fails horribly. Honestly," she snorted. "You Surfacers _won _the war against those Orlesians? What, did they just get tired of the smell of dog and go away?"

"General Loghain is a hero and a great man!" Alistair snapped, re-sheathing his sword with an angry metallic slam.

"Orlesians never occupied _Orzammar, _just saying…" Calea sniffed. "Anyway, think about it," she suggested, getting to her feet and towering over him for a change. "Sticking the King and _all _the Grey Wardens in a closed valley with no contingency escape plan? It's got Hirol's Law written all over it."

"Hirol's Law?" Alistair asked, annoyance replaced briefly for curiosity.

"Uh-huh," Calea told him with a sniff. "'Hirol's Law', which states: 'Even the best laid plans get_ screwed'._ Anyhow…" she patted him companionably on the shoulder. "Best get ready I suppose. I'm guessing from now on until after the 'great battle' there won't be time for snacks and potty trips and this leather is making me _itch _in a place that I'm too ladylike to mention. Know anywhere around here where I can get a bath?"

He stared at her, disbelief taking up residence on his face once more. "You're looking for a _bath…_" he began. "In an _army_ camp?"

"Yeah." _Duh…_

He shook his head. "I'm sorry You Highness. I don't know whether you've noticed, but this isn't exactly the royal palace. Nearest bath is the stream at the bottom of that hill." He pointed back over his shoulder, through thickly wooded, blight wolf infested, stake-seeded forest. There _was _a stream down there somewhere, she knew, but it would take an entire squad of Legion of the Dead to fight through the swarms of High Dragon-sized, biting insects to get there.

_And_…"Ew…men piss in that!" she exclaimed, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Best we can do," he told her with a smug shrug of his shoulders. "Unless you want to bathe in mud. We've got plenty of that right up here."

"And what are the chances of you agreeing to be my soap holder?" she asked hopefully, thinking that he might not be _that _much like the King of Ferelden after all, if that particular shade of crimson he was currently displaying was any indication.

"I…uh…um…wh…eh…!"

King Cailan had certainly not turned that colour when she had asked _him _about the soap-holding business_._

"Pretty low huh?" Calea threw her hands into the air, disappointed. "Guess it's just me and the piss-bath then." She turned on her heel. "See you at the bridge in a couple of hours!" she threw over her shoulder at him, still chuckling at his incoherent splutters. Continuing to grin to herself at his expression, her eye fell on a group of the massive hounds the humans were so fond of, being crated from the camp's kennels to the Tower of Ishal before her thoughts took a more depressing turn. _Puppies…They're going to throw _puppies_ at the horde…_The humans were mad and the Tower of Ishal was going to be the safest place during the battle.

"Eh…watch it dwarf…!"

Calea stepped backward. As the crate trundled past, one of the Mabari turned to look at her, his painted nose poking out at her through the bars. Her hands twitched, itching to reach out and touch its muzzle, but by the time she did raise her hand, the moment had gone. The crate and its dogs had passed out of reach.

"Stupid humans…" she muttered darkly. "You are all so _doomed_…" _And it would be up to Orzammar to fix it when you fail_…She just knew it.

-oo-

Alistair scrabbled frantically for his sword, discovering as he did so that it was just out of reach. The stones beneath his feet rumbled as the creature bore down upon him. His area of sight darkened as shadow loomed…his ears rang; the base of his skull vibrating under the challenging roar of the ogre. Ducking the spray of hot, stinking saliva, Alistair made a dive for his sword again, his foot slipping on a creeping pool of blood and gore. The moment of clumsiness saved him; twisting him out of the way when the ogre swung its massive maul at the space where his head would have been (and then would not have been, but a bloody stump between his shoulders). The creature bellowed again, frustrated at losing its quarry yet again. Alistair wanted to scream himself. The beacon pile was so tantalisingly close. Every time he'd gotten anywhere near enough however, the ogre would be _there_, blocking him. It was almost as if it knew the importance of keeping the beacon from being lit.

The ogre raised the maul again while Alistair calculated his chances of ducking between the ogre's legs. He didn't like the figure he came up with, rolling out of the way as the maul came crashing down on the stones where he lay. Pain exploded from a point in his leg when he collided with a pile of dead. Glancing downwards, he realised he'd just impaled himself onto a broken sword jutting through the dismembered remains of one of Loghain's soldiers.

Grunting with annoyance more than pain, Alistair reached down for the broken blade and ripped it out of his flesh, hurling it at the huge Darkspawn beast. Not surprisingly, it did little damage except to enrage the creature even more; he was treated to another shower of dripping, stinking breath, forcing him to shuffle backwards, desperately searching for a weapon; any weapon to engage the beast with. His back collided with the side of a barrel and his all-too-short life flashed in his mind. Surely he would go down – if anyone ever survived to tell the tale – as the Grey Warden with one of the shortest stints in the Order in the history of…well, the history of the Order.

He had no idea where the others were. He had a vague recollection of one of soldiers who'd accompanied them through the Tower being overwhelmed when they had entered the top floor. Alistair had been too busy fighting himself to take an inventory. The dying crackle and fizz somewhere in the room might be an indication that the mage was still alive – barely - but the young elven lass…He'd not seen her anywhere and she wasn't hard to miss; not with that almost fluorescent head of orange-red hair and her deathly pale skin. She'd arrived at Ostagar shivering and barefoot, wearing little else but a prison canvas and Duncan's cloak. It had been difficult finding her appropriate armour to wear, being slightly taller than the average elf, yet too small for human female armour.

He hoped she was still alive, if only to save him from Duncan's disappointment. Talion had been _his _charge. It would be typical if his first ever command turned into a complete failure.

The ogre raised its maul for what seemed like the hundredth time. Alistair braced himself for the impact, his right hand still questing across the stone beside him for a knife, or a rock…anything…

It wasn't meant to end like this. It shouldn't end like this. Being a Grey Warden…he hadn't expected glory, honour or fame, just simply a place to be other than the place he didn't _want_ to be in. Somewhere he could carve a little Alistair-shaped space and _belong_.

It would have been nice for a change…

Forcing his eyes to stay open – because the moment of his death should be one he needed to witness – he watched the maul rise high above the ogre's horned head in slow-motion, centimetre by centimetre...

He heard a shrieking cry…two single points of light flashed either side of the ogre's neck and a fountain of blood sprayed across his field of vision. The ogre's massive horned head slid from the creature's shoulders like a toothy rotten apple; the maul clanging harmlessly at its feet. In place of the ogre's head Talion appeared, grinning cheerily.

_She waved at him._

"Hi Alistair!" she chirped. "Alright down there?"

Clambering up and over the ogre's still-standing corpse, she used its shoulders as a springboard to launch herself towards him, landing lightly by the young Grey Warden's side.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed in sudden concern. "You're hurt!"

_She hugged him._

"N-never mind me!" Alistair fought relief, wonder and revulsion at the sight of her – an almost overwhelming and confusing wave of disparate emotions - to focus on their mission. Trying manfully to ignore the Darkspawn intestines she'd draped around her neck as a _necklace, _he raised a shaking hand and pointed. "Th-the beacon…!" he gasped hoarsely. "The beacon has to be lit!"

"Oh yeah, I was wondering about that…" she sat back on her haunches, looking over his injuries with far too much casual interest. "Wanted to ask you: do you have any flint?" she asked. "I looked _everywhere, _but couldn't find any."

Alistair gaped. "F-flint?" he stammered.

"Yeah," she nodded her head. "To the light the fire with? I didn't come with any. Jailors have this funny thing about bonfires in prison cells…So I thought: 'Standard Grey Warden issue'!" she blinked at him.

"Uhh…" He began fumbling at his belt pouches. _Do I have flint? Maker's hairy arse, I hope so!_

"Uhhh…"

"Uhh?" Talion asked.

"Uhhhhh…" _No I don't…Ah bugger, bugger, bugger…! _"I um…" _We are so doomed…And _my_ arse is history…_

"So…" Talion raised eyebrows at him, sitting back and crossing her legs as though she were about to crochet a quilt square than in the middle of an incredibly everything-has-gone-wrong crisis. "What happens if we don't light the beacon?"

"Loghain won't know when to charge!" Alistair exclaimed, wanting to cry.

"Can't he see from the top of the hill?" she queried with a tilt of her head.

"Eh?"

"Hill. Top. Of," she told him helpfully, making hilly shapes with her hands. "Surely he'll see what's happening," she stated simply. "If things look like they're going a bit pear-shaped, he'd head down there roly-poly as quick as a ferret up a Carnie's pair of bloomers and help out, right?

"But we're supposed to…" Alistair blinked helplessly. "We're…what do you mean 'ferret'? And…" His eyes strayed from her slithery necklace to the wall opposite. "_Yaargh!_" he shouted, pointing.

Talion sighed. "Oh, not _another _ogrebear! They're adorable, but they're so terribly unfriendly!"

"No, no, no!" Alistair yelled, trying to get to his feet. "Wall torch!" he clarified. "Torch wall! Beacon light!"

Obediently, Talion turned. Her lavender eyes grew wide in realisation. "Ooh!" she crooned. "I get it. But…will the General be able to see such a small torch from waaaaaay down on the battlefield? Ooh!" She turned back to him. "Do you have a mirror? Are you suggesting we do clever things with reflection and so forth with them? I'm so glad you're in charge! That's bloody brilliant, that is!"

Alistair's whimper edged on the knife-edge of despair. _Initiative…_he told himself. _How hard could it be…?_ Climbing painfully to his feet, he stumbled towards the wall torch. With the ogre despatched – _and what did she call it? 'Ogrebear'?_ _Good grief! _– the room was eerily, unhappily quiet, the only sound the constant thump-thump of the trebuchets releasing their loads on the battlefield and the pound of answering volleys from the Darkspawn. Alistair was even vaguely aware of the small explosions of battle cries and the clash of swords, but his attention was on getting to the wall torch.

_There are people dying down there!_

Completing the hobble to the wall, he reached up and snatched the torch from its place and then dashed as quickly as his injuries would allow to the pile of oil-soaked wood. As soon as he touched flame to tinder it caught; fire whooshing noisily to the top of the pile. Alistair edged backwards, shielding his face from the heat of flame with a hand.

He hoped they were on time.

-oo-

"Well that's it then…" Alistair wiped a gore-drenched hand across his brow, smearing the mess of blackened, bloody splatters into a horrible headband of grisly colour. "The beacon's lit," he added, hardly tired, despite the running, climbing and fighting the two of them had just completed to get to the beacon. "It's up to Loghain and his troops now…"

"So what now? Do we head down to join the others?" Majella asked, bracing herself for an affirmative answer. She thought their experience with the Darkspawn in the Korcari Wilds would have prepared her for any further encounters with the tainted beasts, but right now she could readily say that she'd had her fill for the rest of her life. Duncan had said 'no heroics', but he hadn't said wait in the Tower twiddling their thumbs either.

To her relief, Alistair's nod was non-committal, busy cleaning his sword on some random, but handy bit of cloth before re-sheathing it to join her at one of the many, breezy windows that circled the topmost tier of the Tower of Ishal.

"We'll see…I guess? You alright?" he added, careful to make sure that while they stood together, they weren't actually, physically _touching_. "You almost ran out of mana there."

She inclined her head, the buzz of the altered Taint in her blood still unfamiliar and _wrong._

"Just not looking forward to dealing with more of…" She giggled – an involuntary sound borne of relief and tiredness – "I suppose that would be silly. Thinking we were done with fighting Darkspawn?"

"Do you want me to send a note to the Archdemon?" he suggested, a lopsided smile quirking his mouth. "Let it know we're not available and can we please reschedule to a more convenient time?"

Majella returned his smile, the two of them resting their hands on the stone in tandem. From here, the battle ground could clearly be seen, though it was difficult to tell friend from foe. Ella could not even tell by the sound of the cries echoing from the valley to their quiet tower. Beast and human sounded alike to ears unaccustomed to anything more than quietly spoken words, the odd shout of warning to avoid a stray fireball or the whisper of rustling parchment in stuffy, candlelit rooms. She wondered what it was like on the field itself. Though it was still day time, the sky was dark with rain clouds; the air itself feeling restless and unhappy. It had also begun to rain; frigid sprays being driven through the thick window slits would soon soak them to the skin, but Ella did not care. It felt…cleansing.

Alistair leaned forward, his forehead buckling as he surveyed the battlefield. "There's Loghain's forces…" He pointed towards the hill of dancing firelight. "Why isn't he moving?"

He glanced back at the beacon, expecting it to have gone out unexpectedly. It would have explained why the General's forces remained static - mere observers to the fight the King and Grey Wardens had begun with the horde - but it was still ablaze, the heat of the monstrous bonfire detectable even by the chilly window.

"It's…" he began, not liking the turn his thoughts were taking when Majella gasped.

"Look!" she yelled. "The horde!"

"What?" Alistair's gaze left the beacon to return to the battlefield. If the walls had not been so thick, he would have been in danger of leaning out too far, the scene unfurling below seeming like some weird fantasy or bad Fade dream.

The King and the Wardens had successfully lured the horde into the valley, as per the General's plan. Once the King and the Wardens had begun to engage the Darkspawn, the main force was to charge, hemming them in from behind, but while the spear-point of the horde remained in contact with King Cailan and his men, the rear of the horde began to move unexpectedly, heading towards the larger gathering of prey on the top of the hill.

Alistair and Majella watched the wave of darkness surge upon the footsteps of the hill. Battle horns blew in the valley, signalling the King's troops to rally and chase the horde, but a token number of Darkspawn remained detached from the main body, continuing to harass the King's men and hampering their progress towards the General. Loghain's troops began to move…too late it seemed. The tide of blackened, tainted creatures crashed upon the hill, swamping Loghain's army and washing them mercilessly down into the mouth of the valley.

"Where's the General?"

Ella's eyes darted from one end of the valley to the other, her hands gripping the wall so hard, the skin on her fingers began to shred. "Can you see him?"

Alistair squinted, unable to make out from the tangle of moving figures below who was likely to be General Loghain. Only the King in his golden armour appeared to be recognisable, held back behind the safe wall of his personal guards and only managing to move forwards by centimetres.

"We…we should get down there…" Alistair murmured, unsure what only two more, barely-Wardens could add to the battle. "Maker's breath…" he added, his voice beginning to fail him. _They're dying down there…!_

It was the young mage that woke him from his brain sleep; her hand plucking at his sleeve as she too forced herself from the window. She pointed to the stair landing. He nodded, letting his feet follow, gaining momentum until he overtook her. By the time the two had reached the lower floor, they were sprinting.

The two of them burst out from between the broken doors of the Tower of Ishal.

"This way!" Alistair yelled, sparing only the briefest moment to catch his breath before moving on again. He hoped they would not be too late…

-oo-


	5. Anger Management

A/N: Apologies for the delay folks! RL has been a tad busy of late and the Cous-Cous does not play nice…

Thank you to all of you who are reading!

-oo-

**Chapter 5 – Anger Management**

"So um…I should probably…um…"

Aerydd turned to her fellow Warden, her bored scrutiny causing his already deep pink blush to head into shades of self-conscious crimsons. His speech faltered completely; he transferred his gaze to the hazy pile of burning dead visible just behind her left shoulder. The horrible stench of the rotting, burning battlefield and sight of the smoking, dismembered dead was apparently far more bearable than facing her directly.

There was little Aerydd could do about the man following her. Duncan had been quite adamant that the newest Grey Warden become the second-newest Grey Warden's responsibility. She wasn't happy with that. It wasn't as if she needed either company _or_ supervision. The task she had given herself was best done on her own. Considering the reduction in Ferelden Grey Warden numbers resulting from the previous, big battle - splintered again to send half a handful to the Orlesian border to collect the wayward Warden reinforcements - there should have been no Grey Warden either too busy assisting the Circle Mages to dispose of the Tainted dead or with other duties to spend time _coddling_ her.

The Commander of the Grey himself was currently engaged in negotiating an earlier release from the King's army in order to collect on the ancient Treaties. It seemed the King was resisting the removal of the Wardens from his ranks; an irritating development. Aerydd could not leave the company of the King and his fusty, disgruntled circle of nobles soon enough for her liking, even if the King's childish recalcitrance served Aerydd's purpose quite nicely for now.

No one had seen Fergus either before the last, big battle…or since. And she had little faith in the King's assurances for her brother's return from patrol after the horde had been vanquished from this area. Hollow excuses they were, designed to fob her off; along with the promise that the Howe worm would be brought to justice.

The Arl of Amaranthine had been conspicuously absent from the King's armies thus far and Aerydd's fears for her brother's safety grew by the day; from both the Darkspawn as well as Howe's assassins. The King had promised to take his armies north 'directly after the main battle', but there had been very little of the 'direct' and far too much bellybutton gazing – as her father would have put it – so far. King Cailan attaching such little importance to the scion of one of the most important houses in Ferelden made her want to scratch the man's eyes from his smirking face. Added to that, the number of sleepless, nightmare-dominated nights since her joining and Aerydd's temper was stretched drum-skin thin.

She dreamed of the Darkspawn and a winged, fanged black demon. She also dreamed of the other Wardens; their thoughts, their desires, their fears…and _this _Warden dogging her steps appeared in her nightmares far more than she was comfortable with.

The Theirins were not her favourite family in Ferelden. The Landsmeet agreeing on Cailan Theirin – her father's own beliefs aside – as Maric the Saviour's replacement was appalling to her. From what she had seen of him so far, the primping, self-aggrandising monarch did not hold up particularly well against either her father or her older brother. Her faith in the wisdom of the Landsmeet itself had fallen several notches since her time here in Ostagar. The King's noblemen (and that included the great Teyrn) argued frequently and vociferously with little to no decisions being made about the future of Ferelden.

And this while the Darkspawn advanced, destroying and tainting and worse…

A pebble struck the side of her boot, bringing her simmering thoughts back to the present. Aerydd glared at the offending piece of rockery, but did not cease her stalking of the battlefield. "You don't have to follow me," she growled at the shadow lurking over her shoulder.

"Yes I do," he replied, maintaining a safe distance of slightly more than an arm's length from her.

"No. You don't," she replied, narrowing her eyes at the landscape.

"Yes. I do," he sang at her.

Was he laughing at her? She tossed a suspicious glare over her shoulder to find him studying a cloud above the battlefield. Lips pursed, he whistled tunelessly under his breath, still careful not to make eye contact.

Anyone with eyes to see and with a vague grasp of the behind-closed-doors side of the noble world could quite clearly tell where her fellow Warden's distinctive looks originated from. He might be darker, taller, and not blue-eyed as the Theirins commonly were, but every time she looked at him, she felt just as irritated and peeved as when in the King's company. And just like the King, the less time she spent in Warden _Theirin's_ company, the better.

"I can look after myself," she told him coolly.

"Oh well, that's great, dandy," he replied. "But who's going to protect _me?_"

She stopped, folded her arms and sniffed. "Why should I care who protects you?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Oh. No reason," he replied, looking far too innocent. "No reason at all."

"Then you can go away," she snapped, her upbringing forcing her to add somewhat belatedly: "Please."

He _was _laughing at her…! His mouth had _twitched _and she was sure that she had seen the outline of a smile begin to form itself before it was hastily banished behind his screen of habitual, harmless blandness. It was a bit like travelling in the company of a two-legged _blanc mange_…

She turned away again, determined this time to ignore him completely, but the uncomfortable fizz of the Taint-connection between the two of them kept intruding…like an itch that could not be scratched. Worse…

"So…what do you think the camp's cook is going to serve up today? I thought this morning's grey gruel an improvement on last evening's brown gloop. I think he made an extra effort to use edible ingredients. I felt so special. Didn't you?"

Aerydd ground her back teeth together against the response that rose automatically to her lips.

"I glowed all morning," he continued remorselessly. "Glow, glow, glow. All the way to the privy. It might have been the seconds…or was it the thirds? No, it could well have been the fourths or the fifths. Gruel's so…so…_nutritional._ Even better than crumpled up parchment. Of course, can't use gruel for _that _thing you need in the privy, but still…"

Something fluttered at the edge of her eyesight, amongst a piled-up mound of Darkspawn carcasses. Something blue; an incongruous splash of colour against the blackened, charred mess of everything else.

"…'course…leaves are great at a pinch…" the Theirin's voice droned, buzzing at the base of her suddenly taut nerves. "As long as they're the soft kind. Birch…Maple…Oak makes me itch, so not great in that respect but…"

Her pace increased. Reaching the stinking pile of rotting Darkspawn, she located the piece of stained cloth, stiffened with dried blood and gore. Bracing her foot on a slippery skull, Aerydd stretched up and snatched the piece from the pile.

"…great big rash, right across my unmentionables…"

There was little of it left, but what was still there was recognisable to anyone who had been looking for it, or had grown up always surrounded by the emblem of the twin laurel half-wreaths, outlined in midnight blue.

"…couldn't sit down for a week…"

She crushed the cloth in her hand, eyes squeezed closed as the image of her brother's laughing countenance distorted into a hideous, twisted shape in her mind. His voice cried out soundlessly, the vision abruptly swamped in a depthless, sucking black. Aerydd reeled from the intensity of the image. Her breath failed her but she refused to cry, allowing anger instead to well from the pit of her stomach; burning through her veins until rage exploded along the surface of her skin.

"…uh, you…?"

The young Warden did not have an opportunity to finish his sentence. The fist that connected with the centre of his face, caught him off-guard, surprising him into silence for once. He stared at her flashing eyes, his own gaze drawn inexorably to her heaving bosom.

It was an impressive bosom, he thought but…_Maker, she hits like a girl_…Then found himself doubling over, gagging in excruciatingly sharp and unexpected pain. He'd been so absorbed by the bosom that he had not seen the _knee_; his own knees meeting the blood-soaked ground with a grunt of agony. _Okay…she definitely hits like a girl…_he thought, trying not to cry. Blinking furiously, he peeked up at her to find her visibly shaking, blue eyes sparkling in the morning sunlight.

"Andraste's milk teeth…" she informed him in a trembling voice. "That feels a bit…better. I think I need to do that again."

"Huh…?" Alistair gasped, attempting to edge away on his knees. "Gngnn…!"

"Sometime…" she qualified. "It's good to know you're good for _something_…" Turning away, she continued to walk. _Back to the search.._.

-oo-

"No! I will not!"

A mighty crash was followed by squeals of outrage. The two figures poised on the edge of the lake paused in their respective musings to turn towards the sound of arguing voices.

"'Tis not _my_ concern!" a sharp voice punctuated the angry howls. "_You _may choose to sleep the Blight away. I care not…As long as you do not do so in _my _bed!"

The door to the rickety hut opened and a spitting, screaming blur of brown and blue silver was ejected forcefully, landing spreadeagled on the mossy ground a moment before the door was slammed shut.

"Ah…" the female observer noted wryly. "It seems your fellow Warden is quite fully recovered. You see, young man? You need not have worried after all."

Alistair would have answered, if not for the warning gleam in the elf's silvery eyes. He had neither the desire nor the inclination to fight a battle he knew he was likely to lose. He remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself, half-watching the elf fold her legs neatly on the mossy tuft where she had landed.

She looked thoroughly disgruntled.

"What does it take to get some decent sleep around here?" she grumped, dropping her head into the palm of her hand. "Is it so much to ask?" she continued. "Just a _few_ more hours?"

Amused, the elder witch laughed, the sound of her merriment seeming as wild and untamed as her surroundings. "Well, you can hardly sleep the Blight away, young woman!"

Moppet levelled a cold glare at the white haired witch. "Watch me."

"And allow the Blight to consume Ferelden?" Flemeth cocked an eyebrow. "Not all Grey Wardens are cut from the same cloth it seems…"

"Peh," Moppet spat. Tilting backwards, she stretched her legs and arms out, staring defiantly into the pale sky above them. "Why should I care about your human lands?" she asked. "As long as our Elven clans leave this place, why should it matter to me?"

"Well you should!" Alistair exclaimed, unable to contain himself any more. "People's lives are at stake here!" he added, flushing angrily. "Our comrades _died _to try and stop the Blight so you should damn well care!"

Moppet stared emotionlessly at the bristling human…and then she shrugged. "Is that your compelling argument human?" she asked. "Tell me," she added a touch frostier. "How much do _you _care about _my _people being betrayed, enslaved and abused for centuries? An _Elf _defeated the Blight the last time…"

"All the more reason to…!"

"…How did that improve things for my people?" Moppet continued as though the puffing human had not attempted to interrupt her at all. "How did that return our lands to us and the status that was stolen from us, hm?" Sitting up, Moppet's coldness dropped several more degrees below freezing point. "No. Nothing changed. My people are still maligned, chased from the lands they tended with far more care and respect than you humans ever have. Treated with fear, hatred, distrust, you would prefer to cage and cow us into diseased-ridden slums; our wills to live beaten from us instead.

"And despite this you still wonder at my thinking that if the Blight destroys the human race; wipes them from the face of Thedas, then all the better for us?"

"But…" The human Warden looked to the witch, then back again. "But…you should care…" he repeated helplessly.

"Then you are far more stupid than you look," Moppet retorted, feeling too tired to care that the human Warden looked on the very edge of tears. She could feel his emotions through their Taint-connection, feeding her own and she resented it. The idea that this _human_ could affect the way she felt was an invasion of her own free will. The Warden Commander Duncan had taken her away from her people, from those who understood her better than anyone else to be with people who derided her very existence. She understood that it had been for her own benefit and the benefit of the clan. If she had stayed, the chance of her infecting others would have been too much of a risk, but to ask her to save _humans_? Those who disliked her on the mere basis of the shape of her _ears_?

She could see no benefit in it. Let the humans betray each other; make promises to their King they did not intend to keep. Let them kill each other over their petty disagreements about who should be in charge. She would do all she could to buy more time for her people to escape this mess and that was all. There were other Grey Wardens outside this benighted country to pick up the pieces if they chose to. The fact that there were no other Grey Wardens from other places in Ferelden showed Moppet how much of a serious threat they considered this so-called _Blight_.

Rising to her feet, Moppet curled her lip at the human Grey Warden. He had been berating her but she had not been listening. She cared little for the deaths of humans and even less for this phantom Arl who could not be bothered to show up for his favourite nephew's little war.

She began to walk.

"Wait!" Warden Alistair made a grab for her arm. "What are you doing" he demanded. "Where are you going? I'm not finished!"

She whirled, planting a cracking blow into the centre of his face. He reeled backwards; cross-eyed then stared accusingly at her as blood began to spurt from his nose. "You…!" he bubbled angrily.

She merely shrugged. "Me what?" she snorted. "You…" she pointed a weary, bored finger at him, "can go find whatever human collaborator…sacrificial beast – whatever you wish to term them - you want. Me…? I intend to locate these so-called Grey Warden 'reinforcements' that have been summoned to aid this pathetic country of yours."

"But we don't have time! We have to stop the Blight now!" Alistair persisted, blood flowing now between his fingers to drip on his already-stained armour.

"_Two_ Grey Wardens?" Moppet scoffed, cocking her head at him. "Against an entire horde of Darkspawn and an _Archdemon_?" She pursed her lips, but an explosion of laughter burst out from between them. Very soon, she was doubled over in mirth, slapping her thighs at the very idea of herself and this stupid human standing against hundreds of thousands of Darkspawn on one side and the remainder of the human King's army running away on the other. Wiping tears from her eyes, she found Warden Alistair glaring at her.

"Ah…" she gasped, fighting for breath. "You really are an idiot." She told him affectionately. "But…good luck anyway…With your army…thing."

An amused snort at the other Warden's outraged expression and Moppet had turned away. This time, he did not try to follow her. Nor did she wait for him. If he was so keen to do things the hard way, then she was happy to let him. He was the older Grey Warden. He had been one longer than she. He clearly knew better.

She on the other hand, was not so willing to throw her life away. She would not disgrace her clan and her Keeper in such a pointless and unthinking way. And besides, from highly amused expression on _Asha'bellanar's_ face, it seemed the One of Many Years agreed with her...

-oo-

"…no doubt contemplating your navel, I imagine…"

"Oh and I suppose this is the part where we're surprised to find that you don't have any friends?"

"I can be _friendly_, if the situation warrants…"

"Oh…'_warrants' _is it? Did I need to make a special request? I think I left all my gilt edged stationery in my other armour."

"I simply don't see the point in wasting time and energy being friendly to a _walking rock…_"

"_Aaaooooooohhhhh…gggggrrrrggggg…hhhhhhhhhh!_"

"Maker's breath!" Alistair jogged backwards to his fellow Warden's side. "What is it?" he asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"

Calea's hands slipped from her face. Her dire expression caused the other Warden to throw his own arms in front of him in defence and take a fearful step away.

"What's _wrong_?" Calea repeated in disbelief. "Ancestor's _arse…!_" she stamped her foot in frustration. _How dim are these humans…? _Behind the Grey Warden stood the witch, arms folded across her breasts in a feat that was both impressively gravity defying and stubbornly blameless. "What is _wrong_ with the two of…"

Both she and Alistair froze in tandem; her words petering out into a tense silence. A moment later the wind funnelled the unmistakeable, putrid stench of Darkspawn down the narrow valley towards their tiny party. To give her credit, the witch was the first to react, unslinging her staff from her back; the enchanted, rune-inscribed wood crackling with magical energy. And then a strange sound reached them, quite unlike the maddening howling, hooting noise of the Darkspawn.

Alistair frowned, cocking his head to listen over the edge of his shield.

"That sounds like a…"

Pounding feet. A ball of frothing, bloody fur seemed to explode above their heads. It hit Alistair hard, sending the Warden tumbling ankles over head backwards. Legs and other assorted limbs flailing, the combination of brown beast and brown Warden made it difficult to see which was which, until the beast detached itself and landed in front of Calea in a rolling, writhing paroxysm of relief and happiness.

"Ancestors tits!" Calea exclaimed. "It's a bloody giant nug!"

"Mabari…" Alistair helpfully choked out a correction, picking himself and his sword up from the ground. "It's followed…"

"Darkspawn you fool!" Morrigan shouted in warning, a spear of ice grazing the side of the young Warden's face. No one needed to tell either Warden twice; Alistair surging towards the advancing group of Darkspawn. His momentum knocked the first Hurlock to the side - Calea slicing the creature in half with a neat swing of her battle axe - before turning to the frozen pillar of a Genlock; smashing its head from its body and moving on to the next target. Leaping over the disembowelled remains of the Hurlock, Calea found herself swept off her feet, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Sprayed with a stream of hot, vile breath, the dwarf had barely enough time to realise she was in the grip of an ogre before a snapping brown projectile had launched itself at the massive horned Darkspawn, jaws ripping at the creature's neck. The ogre swiped at the Mabari, releasing Calea in favour of this new assailant, plucking the hound and a sizeable chunk of flesh from itself to hurl it against the mountain wall. The ogre crouched…frozen into ice…both human and dwarf smashing the beast to pieces before it could defrost.

Alistair ran to the next and last Genlock, despatching it messily but making a point to kick its corpse neatly to the side of the path. He turned back to the others to find Calea crouching over the prone form of the Mabari.

"'t'would be better to put the creature out of its misery _now_ rather than force it to endure more pain…" Alistair heard the witch argue as he approached, while he wiped the blade of his sword with a handful of leaves.

"It saved us…" Calea scowled; one hand on the bloodied, lacerated side of the war hound.

"I offered you my opinion," Morrigan sniffed. "You may do with it as you will."

Alistair hunkered down beside his fellow Warden. One glance at her blood-spattered profile told him everything he needed to know. "If we choose to tell her to shove it where the Maker's sun doesn't shine, do you think she'll be offended?" he tried to joke, the humour of his suggestion falling flatter than a eunuch's bosom.

Calea's head drooped. Her eyes closed. "You can heal him, witch," she said, teeth gritted.

"I am no healer," Morrigan tipped her chin upwards. "We have already established this."

"_Heal him!"_ Calea shrieked, rising to her feet so fast, Alistair's hair swept sideways. By the time he had stood, the dwarf had the witch pinned to the side of the mountain with her bloodied axe. Magic crackled around Morrigan's form; her outline shimmering eerily.

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Alistair stepped up to Calea's side, his gaze fixed on the Apostate. "Don't…" he growled, beginning to drain her of her mana; the Templar trick serving to anger the witch even more.

"You're supposed to help us," Calea told Morrigan in a hard, low voice before the witch could speak. "If you can't heal then you're no good to us. You can either leave - return to your mother or go somewhere else – I don't care. Either way, if you won't help we don't want you."

Alistair's gaze slipped sideways, first to the dwarf Warden, then to the war hound rasping painfully on the ground. Much as he did not want to admit it, the witch was right. It was cruel and pointless to prolong the suffering of the poor dog. Even if the witch could somehow heal its wounds, the Taint would eventually claim it. Surely…Calea knew this?

"Calea…" he began.

"The next human that speaks to me will find their kneecaps missing!" Calea snapped.

Alistair sighed. "He's tainted," he said quietly. "You know that."

Her response was to hold out her hand to him. He stared at it, uncomprehending. Was he supposed to shake her hand, he wondered? It seemed a strange thing to do, under the present circumstances. But she continued to hold out her hand, palm flat in front of him, looking expectant.

"Start healing, witch!" she tossed over her shoulder. "That kneecap thing applies to you too!"

With a huff of angry air, the witch pushed the axe head away and knelt beside the injured war dog.

Meanwhile, Alistair continued in his confused state.

"Come on, hand it over," Calea prompted him.

"What?" he asked. "Hand what over?"

"You said every Warden gets one," she reminded him, her hand moving to the neck opening of her breastplate. Hooking her fingers beneath the edge, Calea drew out a leather thong and the familiar, tear-drop shape of the Grey Warden amulet. "'A bit of blood', you told me. The Joining brew."

"Well uh…" Alistair began then realisation dawned and his eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't be serious!"

Calea sighed. She drew the amulet over her head and gave him a _look. _"Do you _want _your kneecaps or not?" she asked in a bored tone of voice. "Because you're beginning to look as if you'd like me to relieve you of them."

"Oh uh…no. No, no, no, no."

"No you do, or no, you don't?" she asked, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

"It's just a drop," he told her. "How do we know it'll be enough?"

"We don't," she said, snatching the amulet from his hand after he'd removed it from around his neck. "But two drops might be better than none."

Positioning herself beside the witch, Calea placed the first of the amulets between her teeth and bit down hard. Shattering glass sliced through her bottom lip; blood welled on the surface of her skin, dripping down her chin. She ignored the cut, looking towards Morrigan instead. "Well?" she asked.

"I have done all I can," the witch told her coldly. "And I still think this a foolish and wasteful exercise."

"Noted," Calea informed her in. "I'll make sure to remember that the next time you're in the same position."

Reaching down, Calea prised the Mabari's jaws apart. When it opened one eye, she paused, unsure. It nudged at her fingers and so taking a deep breath, Calea shook the scant contents of the amulet into the hound's mouth. She broke the second amulet, her own blood mixing with that of the Darkspawn and Archdemon's.

"Uh…" Alistair interrupted. "He needs fresh Darkspawn blood.."

Calea rolled his eyes at him. "I think he's had enough of that already, don't you think?"

"Ah. Point taken…"

The Mabari's jaws closed. "Say the words, Alistair."

"What?"

"The freaking _words, _Warden…" Calea snapped. "I don't remember them!"

"Ah. Well…Um. Join us Brothers and Sis…Mab…ters…Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant…" As the slightly more experienced of the Grey Warden's spoke the words of the Joining Ceremony, he looked apprehensively towards the witch, wondering whether he should be speaking them in public, but the thought of spending the rest of his life kneeless was enough incentive to try at least not to care. As he spoke, the Mabari began to shudder, blood-spotted foam bubbling from its nose. Its rate of breathing increased rapidly until the air whistled audibly from its throat. Limbs twitched violently; paws curling and scratching the air and ground. The hound gagged and retched and then…complete silence.

The Mabari lay completely still.

Morrigan was the first to speak. Straightening, she cast a look at the dwarf that was equal parts 'I told you so' and 'next time, let's see who's faster: the witch with the magic or the dwarf with the axe…' "Well," she began.

"Shut up, Morrigan," Alistair warned her in a low growl.

"I had not said anything of note!" she snapped at the Templar-Warden. "Would had I been _allowed_…"

"Yes, well no one asked you so you can just crawl under a bush and d…" Alistair flushed at his almost-mistake in mentioning the word 'die' in front of Calea and hastily corrected himself. Badly "You know…_stuff_."

"How very eloquent."

"You should be taking notes," Alistair suggested aggressively. "You might learn a thing or two about – oh I don't know – other people's feelings for a change."

"'Other's'" Morrigan enquired in a deceptively sweet tone. "Or your own? I wonder at your motives for such a display of such childish outpourings of emotion, Templar. One would think…"

"Shut _up, _Morriga…!"

"_Aaaaooooohhhhh….aarghh!" _Calea sunk her head into her hands, moaning in frustration, exasperation and an inability to decide which of her two companions she would like to kill first.

_Aaaaooohhh…_An echo and a deep, rumbling growl, followed by_ SNAP! SNAP!_

Both witch and Warden jumped, separated by stinging pain and a pair of dripping, foaming jaws. A piece of leather from Morrigan's skirt hung from one tooth, while Alistair rubbed at his behind on the other side of Calea. Before the three of them the Mabari swayed on its feet, sunken eyes regarding the two humans in canine ire. It collapsed back onto the ground, nose first, continuing to eye Morrigan and Alistair distrustfully. After a moment's surprised silence, Calea fell upon the beast; tears of joy falling freely.

"Ancestor's bum bits!" she exclaimed with ragged gasps in between. Long past happiness and well into the realms of delirious euphoria, she added jubilantly; "The giant nug _lives_!"

-oo-


	6. Deja Who

-oo-

**Chapter 6 – Deja Who?**

"Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?"

The question caught him off guard. Alistair fumbled the taper, catching it by the wick as it fell. A nervous reply quivering his lips and a blush colouring his cheeks, he turned towards the voice, only to find that the question had not been directed at him, but at the raven-haired Templar a couple of steps away. Blowing surreptitiously on his scorched fingers, Alistair tried not to look disappointed that the Mage had not been talking to him or embarrassed that he'd almost just set himself on fire.

"Um…"

Majella tossed him a stiff-faced look over her shoulder. "Not now, Alistair…" she hissed at him, lips barely moving. Her smile was quite different when she returned to the Templar. "I'm Majella by the way," she told the Knight of Andraste. "Grey Warden. And you are…?"

The Templar's answering smile was both warm and charming. Alistair sidled closer, just in case his fellow Warden needed to be rescued at some stage, prompting her to grit her teeth at him once more; "Not _now, _Alistair…!" Her elbow jabbed into his side before the tall Templar straightened from his salute.

"I am Ser Bryant," the Templar informed them both. "Knight Commander of the Lothering Templars."

"Brilliant…" Alistair heard Majella say breathlessly. "Ooh…I'm Majella…Grey Warden…"

The Templar smiled kindly, eyes twinkling. "So you've said, dear lady."

Ella giggled, clapping a hand to her breast. "Really? How silly of me!"

Feeling a timely rescue was required – of his nerves, if not Majella - Alistair bumped the Mage out of the way and extended his hand. "Alistair, also Grey Warden," he said. "We're here to offer any help we can, Ser Bryant. If there's anything we can do…?"

"I am most grateful for the offer, Wardens," the Templar inclined his head gratefully. Ella giggled again (and when the Templar was not looking, stepped on Alistair's foot). "With the King's army to support us, we have an even better chance of leading the refugees from the area," Ser Bryant continued in a grim voice. "The question of _where_ however, remains to be answered."

"Oh um…North…" Alistair tried to say confidently, though he wasn't at all and added a nervous, "…ish"

"As long as these people are away from the horde," Ser Bryant agreed. Lowering his voice cautiously to a whisper, he cast a pointed look at the bleak faces around him. "Though is there anywhere safe in Ferelden right now?"

"Of course there is," Alistair told him, wanting to add _Orzammar, _but again, could not say so with any confidence. He doubted the Dwarves – with problems of their own it seemed – would welcome thousands of human refugees into their underground cities…if humans had an inclination to be under tons of rock in the first place.

Seeming to accept this scant assurance, Ser Bryant gestured towards the Chantry exit. As the three of them wound through the press of people, he explained in a lowered voice how the great iron doors would normally have been left open. In the end they found keeping the doors closed reduced the hysteria and panic of those taking refuge in the Chantry building. It had been bad enough that amongst those fleeing the horde included those maddened by the Taint or encounters by the Darkspawn. He and the Revered Mother were very relieved to see the King and his men enter Lothering, though if the demise of their most experienced and loved General was true, it was a devastating blow to the country.

Once outside, the three of them were a little more free to speak, even if the courtyard was barely less crowded than the Chantry building itself.

"I also understand the Grey Wardens are to take the Qunari," Ser Bryant murmured over a small frown. "Have a care Wardens," he warned grimly. "The creature numbers amongst those he murdered defenceless women and children."

"Well, we're hardly defenceless," Alistair told the Templar, feeling it incumbent upon himself to defend the Warden Commander's decision to appropriate the sentenced Qunari. Ella meanwhile, continued to stare admiringly at the Templar with pink cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. It was beginning to irritate Alistair and not because that admiration was directed at the Templar (and not him) either.

"To answer your question earlier," Ser Bryant said, looking out on the courtyard and the misery represented there and beyond. "Apart from providing protection from the horde no, there is no more you can do. All that is left for us to do is to trust in the Maker to keep us all safe. The King's army included."

"Sure…sure…" Alistair grimaced, giving his fellow Warden a nudge. He had just seen Daveth arrive at the Chantry board, miming something indecipherable. Arms waving frantically, the other Warden had begun jumping up and down when neither of them showed signs of understanding. "Um…" Alistair said slowly. "Well if you need anything," he told Ser Bryant quickly. "Just send a message to the Grey Wardens. Now, if you'll excuse us…We have to uh…Stuff."

Ser Bryant looked behind him, but did not see anything unusual. Crossing his arms in the Chantry salute – one that the Grey Warden returned – he bid the two young people farewell and good luck. As they left, the female Warden winked at him. Shaking his head in amusement, Ser Bryant returned to the depressing gloom of the Chantry and his duties.

Alistair waited until the Templar had gone before picking the Mage up bodily and depositing her onto the bottom step. "You're embarrassing," he told her. "Do you know that?"

"Eh heh heh heh…" she chuckled evilly at him. "What's a little flirting with a good looking male?" she asked. "Maker, I _love _a man in a Templar uniform. There's something wonderfully _forbidden _about a gorgeous man in heavy plate and purple skirt. Besides," she gave him a careless shrug. "I had nothing to do while you were chatting up the Revered Mother."

"I was not chatting up the Revered Mother!" Alistair protested hotly. "And it's crimson, not purple…!"

"Who's chatting up the Revered Mother?" Daveth asked, as the two of them had just reached him.

"No one!" "Him," both Ella and Alistair said at the same time.

"Was not!" Alistair denied again.

"Got your key though, right?" Ella asked, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

Alistair sighed. He held up a large, rusty, vaguely key-shaped piece of metal. "_Yes,_" he told them both. "Let's just get this thing over with quickly," he added.

"Yeah," Daveth agreed. "That Qunari gives me the heebie-jeebies, I don't mind saying."

"Oh I don't know," Ella said thoughtfully. "I think he's quite good looking in a weird, exotic 'ooh-you-don't-see-one-of-those-every-day' kind of way. Beautiful eyes."

"Well, I hope you remember your admiration for his 'beautiful eyes' when he's ripping your arms off and hittin' you round the head with the wet ends." Daveth told her with a wondering shake of his head.

"Yeah…" Ella said, twinkling up at him. "Have I ever told _you _how handsome you are, Daveth?"

Daveth slid a look towards the sandy-haired Warden between them before returning his attention to the Mage. "You know," he admitted to Ella. "Never let it be said that I'm slow to learn. Every time you say that, I fear for my life."

Ella chuckled. Daveth smiled. Alistair scowled. "Qunari in a cage," he muttered darkly. "Dead ahead. Can we _please_ just get this over and done with?"

"You said that already _and_ you sound frightened," Ella teased him in a sing-song voice. "You aren't afraid of a murdering seven-foot tall, muscle-bound Qunari, are you oh Slayer of Many Darkspawn?"

Alistair cast his fellow Warden a sour look. The three of them came to a stop in front of the cage that looked barely large enough to contain the village sow, never mind a fully grown Qunari in the prime of his Qunariness. Dressed in stained rags, the giant was still impressively imposing. Sitting straight-backed with eyes closed, he chanted in a strange, whispering tongue. Ella cocked her head at the man. Even sitting down the top of the Qunari's head was level with her chest. She grinned secretively to herself.

"Did I ever tell you how hand…"

"I have already told you," the giant's voice rumbled over Ella's introduction. "I will not amuse you any more than the other Grey Warden."

"Other Grey Warden?" Alistair asked, shooting an exasperated look at Ella. "You mean Duncan?"

The giant's eyes opened, startling them all with the intensity of his gaze as well as their unusual colour of clear, unblemished lavender. It was an incongruously gentle colour for a man of his look and stature. "I do not know of whom you speak when you mention this…Duncan," the Qunari continued.

"Well I don't…" Alistair began when Ella stepped in front of him.

"We're here to release you," she told the giant. "If you truly have a wish to atone for your crimes, the Grey Wardens would be honoured to have you."

The Qunari favoured them with a sceptical glare. "Atone?" he echoed.

"Look," Alistair sighed, his patience depleted. "Nice to have a chat and all but there's a bit of a Blight on, if no one's noticed. You can stay here and get ripped apart by Darkspawn or you can come with us and fight them instead. We're giving you a choice."

"I think we can give him something to wear and a really big stick to poke at a Darkspawn too," Ella chimed in helpfully. "And if you're really quick at supper," she told the Qunari with a friendly smile, "you might get a chance at the cheese sammies before Prince Warden here scoffs them all."

"Prince Warden?" Daveth enquired, with a keen look at Alistair.

"Just my little joke," Ella explained, dimpling.

"Oh ha ha," Alistair grumped. "Remember, this is my laughing face."

"Really?" Ella peered into Alistair's face far too closely for his comfort. "I thought this is your Scaring Small Children Face. Hm, I'm so glad you corrected me. I now know not to shield the littlies when you're…_laughing._"

"I prefer to remain in this cage…" the Qunari told them all. "If you are all Grey Wardens, this country is doomed."

"Hang on…!" Daveth exclaimed. "We're not all complete donkey's arses."

"Speak for yourself!" Alistair scowled.

"Yeah, thief-face!" Ella added.

"Thief face?" Alistair turned to the Mage-Warden in disbelief.

Ella shrugged. "It was either that or 'cutpurse bum'."

"Hey!"

"Anyway," Ella continued smoothly, ignoring Daveth's protest. She held out her hand to Alistair. "Key," she prompted. "Unless you want to do the honours, Alistair."

"And I have already told you that I do not wish to be released," the giant reiterated stubbornly.

"Yeah, you do," Ella assured the Qunari. "'Cos there's this really interesting ex-Redcliffe Knight Warden I think you're going to get on _famously _with. The sooner the two of you meet the better!"

Alistair gaped at his fellow Warden. This Qunari…against the xenophobic, mono-theistic, sexist Jory…_Maker, I don't want to be around when that happens..._While he hesitated, Ella plucked the key out of his hand. Before he could stop her – and by this time he wasn't too sure whether he cared or not to do so – she had unlocked the cage and had swung the door open. The Qunari however, remained resolutely and defiantly seated.

"Oh come on, it'll be fun!" Ella told him encouragingly. "Tonight is pickled hogsfoot and Spin the Bottle Night! You don't want to miss that, do you?"

"We're also going to perform another Joining," Daveth added, causing his two Warden companions to turn to him, curious.

"You mean this one?" Ella asked.

Daveth ducked his head. "Yeah…sort of," the dark-haired Warden said carefully. Casting a wary glance over one shoulder and then the other, he moved in closer. "The…_General_…" he whispered. "Though I suppose if this fellow ever unkinks himself; him too. Duncan wants to keep it hush-hush apparently. Bad for morale he reckons, if folk find out the General survived, but Tainted…"

"And if he doesn't survive the…you-know-what?" Ella added.

All three Wardens returned their attention to the reluctant giant. The Qunari had begun his chanting once more, reinforcing his decision to remain a hapless prisoner, rather than accompany these three strange humans back to their Warden camp. On reflection, he felt his chances of surviving the horde of Darkspawn trapped in a cage and unarmed were far better than fully armed and armoured beside these three buffoons.

"Well then," Daveth sighed. "He's going to die from the Taint anyways, isn't he?" returning the subject of discussion back to the General.

All three Wardens looked down on the meditating Qunari, silently considering the fate of Ferelden were the great General to die from his wounds…or worse. While it was true that people thought the Teyrn dead already, it was also true that if he was to miraculously 'reappear' alive – and as a Grey Warden too – the country's morale would receive an enormous boost. If he died during the Joining Ceremony however…

As a group, all three bowed their heads, the solemn silence broken by Ella.

"Do you reckon they'll pawn his armour?" she asked, thoughtfully. Realising two sets of eyes had turned to her in horror, she added with a shrug; "What? Waste not, want not…That's damned good armour the general has. If it wasn't so heavy, I'd put dibs on it myself…and you can stop looking at me like I've just chucked your grandmother under a speeding carriage, Alistair. I think it's a perfectly legitimate idea…"

Alistair dropped his head into his hands. Not for the first time did he wonder whether Duncan had chosen Majella from the dozens of potential mage candidates because he'd had some kind of Near-To-His-Calling lapse in sanity, rather than for her potential as a Grey Warden. It would certainly explain Jory and to some extent, Daveth too…And maybe even…_him…_?

This meant - in Alistair's mind – if the Commander of the Grey was going senile and recruiting complete idiots, the Qunari was right. Ferelden _was _doomed…

-oo-

Her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen…like the high-up bit in the sky on a summer's day or…_No, that's not very poetic, is it? _He tried again. Her eyes were blue like a flower; those really tiny ones you could find in cow fields growing out of the cow pats…_I'm really not good at this kind of thing…_What was blue, Alistair wondered? This kind of blue? Blue like the…like the…bluey…thing…Well, her eyes were really, really, _really _blue. So pretty. Yes. They were pretty. Incredibly pretty. And those bluer than blue eyes were directed at him; wide and hopeful and _oh Maker, do I have to be the one to make the decision?_

He didn't want to. The fact was, the woman with the pretty blue eyes might be quick with bow and arrow and no slouch with a sword, but when he looked into those limpid pools of poetic bluefulness, he saw in them his doom. Here was someone teetering precariously on the knife edge between sanity and rabid lunacy and he thought she was the prettiest thing he'd seen since that really fantastic blue-veined soft cheese in Denerim once.

He tried not to straighten his hair. Not while standing in front of her. Oh no. He might get it wrong and end up looking like the rear-end of an unhappy hedgehog and then really make a bad impression. Not that hair probably counted for much. Possibly.

"Well? What is your decision?"

_Maker, she even had a voice like…like…warm, drippy cheese over hot toast…_

"Alistair…"

A hand appeared on his arm; he had to drag his gaze from the titian-haired beauty standing in front of him to the other red-head. Unlike the lake blue under a spring sky however, these eyes were a soft lilac and rimmed with dark shadows.

Today she had a rock on her shoulder. She had painted two eyes and a nose onto it and pressed grass into the sides for…whiskers? The grass was wilted and bruised. Scarily, the more Alistair looked, the more the rock appeared less like a rock and more like something once belonging to an animal.

Possibly.

Talion nodded respectfully at the Chantry Sister and plucked at his elbow guard. Accepting the summons reluctantly, Alistair bowed too. A dreamy smile and he allowed himself to be taken some distance away, out of listening range, though he made sure he was still within watching range. It wasn't as if he was some kind of drooling pervert; it was just that the lovely Chantry Lay Sister was very watchable. _And maybe I shouldn't be thinking of 'lay' here, because…cold water…cold water…Grand Cleric in her small clothes! Ah, that feels better._

"I think we should let her join us," Talion told him softly.

"What?" _Join us…? _Alistair gawped. _Maker's nuts…'join'…really cold water…really, really cold…Morrigan in her small clothes…Wait…_"What?" he repeated.

"I don't think…" Although they had only been in each other's company a short while, it was long enough to know that every time she looked up at him with those large, lavender eyes, someone was going to get hurt. Soon. And usually, him.

"I don't think it's safe," Talion explained, which in Alistair's view was no explanation whatsoever. So, he had to ask.

"Safe for what?"

"There's Darkspawn about," Talion reminded him. "And bandits and unscrupulous, ungentlemanly men who might want to take advantage of a pretty girl travelling all on her own."

"Really?" Alistair squeaked, cleared his throat and adjusted his tone of voice to more manly depths. "Really…"

"And…" Talion cast a telling look towards the waiting Sister. She tapped a finger surreptitiously to the side of her head. "I know it's rude to say this, but I don't think…" her voice lowered to a whisper. "…That she's all…you know…_there…_"

Alistair cocked an eyebrow at her. He had to admit, Talion was absolutely, inarguably…probably correct but…_Hello Miss Pot, allow me to introduce you to Little Miss Kettle…_

"Someone like that," Talion added with a worried frown. "Someone like that could do with protecting, don't you think?"

_Ah!_ That was what she meant! "Oh _absolutely_!" Alistair agreed wholeheartedly. "Definitely. Can't have her running around unprotected from ungentlemanly Darkspawn. No ma'am!"

Talion's eyes shone at him, causing him to feel a stab of guilt because it did occur to him that perhaps the Sister might need protection against _him_…"Not that I'm some pervy lunatic or…I'm sorry did I just say that out loud? I meant to say we should…we should…Damn."

"Well I'm glad you're not, Ser Alistair!" Talion gripped his arm and told him fiercely. Her expression caused relevant parts of him to shrivel and attempt to hide from her in fear. "Thank you for reassuring me! I admire your candour!"

"Really?" he squeaked again.

"Yes!"

"Alright…"

"So, I'm going to tell her right _now_!" Talion added, pumping her fists in the air.

"Alright…"

The rest of him tried to shrink too; a difficult thing seeing as he stood head and shoulders above her and half again as wide. It was a wonder his fellow Warden could stand upright at all, she was so thin and insubstantial. She was not so much corporeal as like a slip of translucent, deadly light. There had been times – especially just after Ostagar – when he had been afraid to inhale too hard around her, just in case she disappeared up a nostril or…He watched her march away towards the Chantry Sister, her head held at a determined angle. Her mass of spiky orange hair clashed with the rich russet tones of the Sister's own head of hair. He knew the moment Talion had delivered the good news because the Sister emitted a girlish squeal of delight and threw her arms about his fellow Warden. Talion turned within the older woman's embrace, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Someone giggled foolishly. Looking around for the origin of the laughter, he only found the Mabari curled up like a rock nearby and the creepy Qunari glaring at him expressionlessly. The ridiculously happy sound had apparently come from him.

_Oh dear…_Because from the look on the Chantry Sister's face she…that…He realised with a jolt; like a punch in the gut that the Chantry Sister's look of admiration for his fellow Warden was more than mere _thanks_ for letting her come along for the adventure. His head inevitably went off on a trip filled with mind-whirlingly impossible scenarios. _Ice water…ice water…Flemeth in her small clothes…Ah that's…_not _better_.

Slapping at his cheeks, Alistair felt the best way was to not look at either woman. He understood now why the Grey Wardens recruited few women.

It was making fighting the Blight almost…enjoyable…And that was a bad, bad thing.

-oo-

"Um…can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Is it important?"

Alistair paused, cautious. He noted the tapping foot, the pursed lips and the steely gaze. A desire to – for once – have the upper hand overwhelmed him. "Yesss," he said, mirroring her stance. "Is anything I say important? According to you, no."

"Then why are you telling me?" she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Because I like to annoy you?" he stated, trying not to look too pleased with himself. He could laugh at her; laugh at the way a seasoned Dalish trained in forest-craft all her life could get so easily lost while trying to find the border between Ferelden and the next country, Orlais. How she claimed to be smarter, but wasn't smart enough to stay out of trouble from a group of Templars who suspected her to be an Apostate on the run. How…well he could go on really, except he preferred to keep a nice little catalogue of things he could throw at her when she was being particularly difficult.

Truly, there were days when it was _great _being him.

If the information gleaned in Lothering was correct, the Wardens summoned from Orlais had been turned away at the border, making her pursuit of them quite useless actually. And then, not only had the General's troops joined with local thugs to make sure no Grey Warden was left alive in Ferelden but a bounty had been posted across the length and breadth of the country, complicating their pursuit of the treaties. It was sheer luck that he had stumbled upon Moppet before the Templars could turn her over to the authorities. Was she grateful?

"What do you want of me then, _human?_" she sneered.

_Ah, that would be a 'no'._

"I just…wanted to talk," he told her quite calmly, managing to keep the smug tone out of his voice.

She shot him a look of pure loathing. "You're always talking," she pointed out darkly.

"Not true," he corrected her smugly. "Owing to fact that I can hardly get a word in edgeways when you're complaining about how hard you lot have it from us thieving, deceitful, untrustworthy _round-_ears."

Her arms tightened around herself and her jaw hardened to rock. The inner Alistair danced with glee. Any minute now, she was going to whip out that very sharp, curved dagger of hers and hold it up against his throat and threaten to kill him if he spoke one more word.

Again.

_Maker, she's so bloody predictable…_It was pathetic.

He found it interesting that she wasn't enthusiastic about approaching the Dalish first. In fact, for reasons only known to her, her Elven-kin appeared to be the last she was willing to ask. Why? Because she was embarrassed to be in the company of humans? She didn't want to be associated with the Order? While it would have been enormously hilarious to niggle the information out of her, Alistair was anxious to find out what was going on in Redcliffe. The powerful Arl had not been seen anywhere near Ostagar and the reports he had heard - again in Lothering - were disturbing to say the least.

"Just say what you have to!" she snapped at him.

"Well…" he began, collecting his thoughts because while he was keen to investigate Redcliffe, he wasn't keen at all on what the visit could mean from _certain _points of view. "The thing is…While _you_ might think I was raised by toothless nugs, the truth of the matter is that…well I was…fostered by the Arl of Redcliffe."

She stared at him coldly. "This is the useless information you wished to impart to me?" she asked.

"Oh no, no, no. That's only the fun bit," he assured her cheerfully "I haven't gotten to the _really _useless bit yet. No really, you'll love it. You'll swear at me and tell me to go to the Feather Harem and everything."

"Idiot…"she muttered under her breath. "That's _Fen'harel…_stupid human."

"Really? No feather involved whatsoever? Well I'm disappointed!" Alistair sighed dramatically. Really, poking a hornet's nest should not be this much fun.

"Just get to it, buffoon!"

"Ah, well see…" Alistair knew he was taking his life into his hands when he waved a finger under her nose. "The thing is the Arl raised me because…well not because I was his by-blow or anything, but as a favour to the King of Ferelden. The previous one that is. King Maric was my…sort of my father. Which makes King Cailan sort of my…brother…"

She growled, the temperature of her glare no less warm than a glacier. "I do not know this King Maric," she told him matter-of-factly. "Was he important?"

"King of this country," Alistair informed her, knowing perfectly well her ignorance was feigned. He paused, waiting for the inevitable comment, but she merely stared, her gaze fixed on the links in his chest plate.

"You're a bastard," she stated – finally! - and he wanted to pat her on the head for not disappointing him. "Why should I care?"

"Well you…" The second statement should have mattered too – and it did – but not in the usual way. His reaction to it in fact _surprised_ him. Her silver eyes met his; bored and habitually unimpressed. It _really_ didn't matter? "Being the…prince thing…" he added, just in case she didn't understand. Which he doubted.

She scratched her nose at him.

_Well, that's…_Most of his life had been spent wishing that his parentage – no matter how ignoble - mattered nothing; that he was the nobody son of no one for so long that when faced with someone who truly _did not give a brass nug _about who his father was_, _it was unexpectedly…disappointing.

"You really don't care?" he asked, just to be sure.

"You could have been born of a blighted sow and the king of mushrooms for all I care, human," she told him in her chilly voice. "It matters little to me. Unless…"

Raising an eyebrow, she ran a coldly critical eye along the length of him; from muddy toe to gore-spattered head. "You really _do_ want to be associated with a line of fools too stupid not to trust in their delusional and paranoid lackeys?"

"Well I…" He should be happy, he told himself…So why wasn't he?

"Are we done here?" she added.

He shrugged. "Unless I can think of anything else to irritate you with at short notice," he added, mostly out of habit. "I suppose, yes."

Her sneer in response was well-practised. She turned away, arms still wrapped tightly about her body. Head down, she strode towards the wide stone bridge, the creak of the nearby water mill and cloud of mist blowing off the waterfall consuming her in minutes.

-oo-


	7. Tough Talk

A/N: Oh hey, thanks to all of you wonderful people for reading. An extra special cheers to those of you who have taken the time out to review. Your comments are truly appreciated. This chapter stalled several times and only the thought of letting you guys down kept me going. Before I knew it, half the chapter had been written and then...I'd reached the end, so thank you, thank you!

-oo-

**Chapter 7 – Tough Talk  
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He was still following her. Even though she was the slowest in their group and he was clearly quite capable of keeping up with the other Wardens, he remained behind. Why, she wondered? Because they still couldn't trust her not to run at the first opportunity to try to return to Highever? Whatever the reason, it was like having a Mabari again…except her old warhound was better at fetching and knew the command 'stay'.

Thoughts of the elderly Barkley brought far too many memories crowding into her head. Her eyes stinging, Aerydd slapped at her cheeks, forcing herself back to the present. She was…dealing. She might be the only Cousland left in Thedas but by the Maker that last Cousland would make her mark. Even if she had to carve it into the landscape with her own blood and bones, she would do it. Aerydd Cousland, Grey Warden…sooner or later she would find Howe herself and rip him apart with her bare hands if she needed to.

Obviously she would prefer to make him suffer before he breathed his last; force him to beg for his life. There was an entire world of horrible, nasty ways to avenge her parents and the loyal people who had served her family. Throwing him at the Archdemon was top of that wonderful list…and then she realised the Warden Commander had called a stop to their progress.

She looked about, as though waking from a deep sleep. The place did not look familiar, but as she had never had cause to visit this side of Lake Calenhad before, it was not surprising.

Behind her, Warden Mabari cleared his throat.

"The uh, Tower of Magi," he pointed out helpfully. "Built originally by the Avvars, it fell under the control of the Tevinter Imperium before…"

Aerydd turned away, Alistair's voice continued to drone out the impromptu history lecture. Was he trying to impress her? Or just simply entertain her? Either way, the man certainly seemed to enjoy the sound of his voice too much, considering how frequently he treated her to one of his lengthy, quite frequently inane speeches. She instead focussed on the dark, indistinct shape looming out of the mists. She could smell the lake; a mixture of silty mud, rotting weed and something else she could not quite identify. The other Grey Wardens had already moved down the steep incline towards the lake shore. With a sigh, she began to follow…

"…until bunnies declared war upon the Mages in twenty-eight-forty, starting the conflict now known as the War of the Rodents…"

Aerydd stumbled. She turned sharply back towards the rambling Warden at her back.

"What?" He spread his hands wide at her narrow-eyed enquiry, looking far too innocent than could actually be believed.

"War of the Rodents?" she repeated.

"Little known fact," he told her quite seriously. "Ever see a rabbit wielding a pike? Terrifying!" He added a delicate shudder; a gesture quite contrary to his soldierly appearance. He was…as time went on, a little too much like her childhood friend, Roland Gilmore. While Rory did not chatter like a tree full of magpies, he still had the same ability to fool his way under her defences, chipping away at her wall of carefully maintained ice.

She wondered if Rory had managed – somehow – to evade Howe's troops. It was…

"…launching little trebuchets with their tiny paws, whiskers a-twitch, like this…"

Aerydd blinked at him in disbelief. Alistair looked – quite frankly – ridiculous, trying to wiggle his Theirin nose and baring his teeth at her, mimicking a rat or a mouse or a whatever it was.

She realised, stupidly, what he'd been attempting to do. What he'd been trying to do since she had arrived with Duncan.

"You're a bloody idiot…" she told him.

"Oh, is that nice? I mean, _really_…"

She punched his arm, causing him to grant the injured area an offended look. This, she ignored. "You don't have to…" she began. "Look," she scowled at him. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what?" he asked with the same, wide-eyed look from before.

"You like being obtuse on purpose don't you?" she accused him, fists jammed firmly onto her hips.

"No, no, no," he flapped his hands in denial. "Sometimes I like to be acute on purpose."

"A cute what…?" she started, but he again interrupted her.

"Oh you don't have to tell me I'm cute. I know already…"

"I'm not saying you're cute!" she interrupted him back.

"Well, I don't blame you, I…"

"Will you shut _up_?" she grasped his shoulders and attempted to shake him. "Stop talking at me!" Gritting her teeth, she added. "Maker's breath, you make my head hurt!"

His response was merely to smile gently at her, as though he considered her a mindless idiot to be humoured until the nice armoured men arrived to take her away to some place _restful. _It was…It was…She punched his other arm. Hard; his mouth turning into a small o in response. He cast her a pathetically hang-dog expression, all but pawing at her for the bone in her hand and for forgiveness for peeing on her favourite rug.

It was, inevitably, another reason why this irritating man reminded her of Rory Gilmore. The resemblance both men had to a naughty Mabari puppy was far too close for her liking.

"You are…" She tried forming coherent sentences in her head but kept failing to find a string of words appropriate to sting him with. "You are…!" She failed because she had grown up all her life surrounded by hounds and puppyish, ginger-haired squires and she had been brought up to have some consideration where animals – and people who had her best interests at heart - were concerned.

Her voice of conscience took up the sound of her mother's voice. And _Maker _did it hurt! What she would have given to hear her mother scold her one more time…She…"What's this…?" she found herself needing to ask him.

"Oh…" he murmured. "_Not _a handkerchief?"

"Then I won't thank you," she mumbled, dabbing at her eyes and nose with the proffered cloth.

"And I won't stare off into the distance to give you a moment to collect yourself," he added. "Because you're not crying."

She blew her nose; long, loud and disgustingly wet. She knew some noblewomen who could cry prettily; shedding tears that turned their eyes into stars; peppering their eyelashes with dainty, salty droplets above charmingly pink cheeks. Aerydd had never mastered this very important art of careful emotional display. The Couslands were an impassioned lot. While every Cousland learned early to exercise restraint on their emotions, they also believed wholeheartedly in honesty in all things.

When Aerydd was _not _crying, her face did not screw up like an elderly prune. Nor did her eyes turn into puffy pools of wetness or her nose run like spring mountain streams of green goo. Her mouth most certainly did not turn downwards, wobbling like an entire sideboard of jellies and her skin avoided the sad blotchy look of a badly made patchwork quilt.

Giving her nose one final wipe, she started to return the handkerchief to Alistair, when she realised it was dripping wet and she should perhaps give it a bit of a rinse before even considering giving it back. Alistair eyed the sodden piece of cloth warily, not particularly keen to retrieve it either until he realised what he had given her had not been his handkerchief but the…

"What's _this_?"

He took a step backwards, preparing himself for the backlash from the realisation that the piece of cloth she had given her was the fragment of the pennant she had found on the Ostagar battlefield. In the ensuing altercation where he had come off second-best, she had forgotten to retrieve it.

He hadn't.

Not only that, Aerydd realised, he had _cleaned _the damned thing, carefully removing all traces of Darkspawn filth. _Why_?

She gave him a powerful, searching stare. "I don't understand…" she told him.

"Well I…I thought it meant…I wanted to…uh…Please don't kill me," he pleaded. "I'm too young to die."

Aerydd stretched the cloth wide in her hands. He'd cleaned it, but she'd now made a mess of it. It was – ironically – symbolic of the entire mess she'd found herself in. The cloth only showed three links of leaves…one each for her parents and one for her brother.

"You were going to give this to me?" she asked in a dull voice.

"Well uh, yes...?"

She raised her head slightly to chest level, staring at the leaves of the splint mail making up his chest plate. Some of the links had been repaired recently and rather inexpertly too, as a few of the pieces of iron hung crooked, though not so much that the gaps would allow the head of an arrow to pass through. Really, considering how well the Darkspawn were armed, his armour was pitifully inadequate as a means of protection. Not when someone like him regularly headed into the thick of battle, rather than standing at range with bow and arrow.

It was another thing that made him like Rory.

Alistair always stood beside her in a fight; her two-legged shield.

She found it annoying…also endearing and sweet and she really, truly…She silently accepted another piece of cloth; clean, dry and free of ornamentation, though she noticed that someone had tried to embroider the letter 'A' in one corner.

Very badly.

She thrust the now sopping, second cloth into his face.

"You did this?" she demanded fiercely.

Alistair cringed, throwing up his hands in hasty defence. "Uh yes, yes…I had some extra time and a bit of thread left over and…Sometimes the other boys at the monastery would mistake my stuff for…It's just an 'A', really…"

"You call this _needlepoint_?" Aerydd flapped it angrily under his nose. "This is an insult to cotton! Is everything you do this half-_arsed_?" She jabbed the handkerchief painfully into his cheek with a finger, leaving sticky wet marks across his skin. "Men are useless! Truly!"

She whirled away, feet sliding across the slick grass towards the lake. She was barely aware of the human Mabari following her, too intent on her purpose. She reached the lake, dunked the handkerchief in the near-frozen water and squeezed it out. Then, shooting a heated glare at a couple of interested fishermen, won a place on a nearby bench. She rummaged through the scant contents of her utility belt, located what she needed and set to work…Sewing very carefully in rough grey thread a _proper _letter 'A'.

She would give it back to him when she was finished as an example of how to do things _properly. _

_The idiot…!_ It was about time someone pulled him into line...

-oo-

"Hellooooooo…!" Calea waved her hands in front of the nearest immobile face. "Anyone home? Anyone at all?" She stepped up to Alistair. "I say, it was so darned hot in here that I decided to strip down to nothing else but my smallclothes and run around jiggling in an attempt to cool myself down!"

Nothing.

Not a blush or a single choke on his tongue or anything.

It was really quite disappointing. She poked the Mabari's nose with a gloved finger. It came away – unsurprisingly – gooey and wet, but even Calew remained still as a statue, tongue lolling from his mouth but doing nothing else. The giant too appeared to be asleep on his feet, as did the priest woman and the bossy lady Mage.

"And you'd think, wouldn't you, that you Mages would have set up some kind of spell defence against this sort of thing?" Calea said to anyone who could hear. Could they hear, she wondered? "You're all a buncha prissy, whiny, stone-cursed…!"

_Thleep…Let the world; all your troubleth take care of themthelveth…You detherve more…You detherve better…_

Calea turned. Slowly.

The words had appeared inside her head and she didn't like it one bit. Nor did she like the look of the creature lurching towards her. It looked like someone had attempted to fashion a human out of earwax, but had run out and had resorted to using bellybutton fluff. To say it was hideous was perhaps being a bit kind. It made Darkspawn look like ravishing beauties.

It had a terrible lisp.

Calea propped her battle axe casually on a shoulder and gave the creature a long, wary stare.

"Pardon?" she asked politely, though _polite _was the last thing she was feeling at the moment. "I'm sorry I didn't quite catch that."

"You thould be thleeping…" It appeared to frown. Had it frowned? Its face had just performed some kind of downward collapse and it had _sounded_ unhappy. "Why aren't you thleeping?"

"Tleeping?" Calea enquired. "What kind of a sick Mage perversion is that?"

"I didn't thay tleeping. I thaid thleeping…I thee, you're a dorf…I had heard of dorfth being thomewhat immune to Thloth influenth…Thtill…"

"Ancestor's tits," Calea dabbed at her face with a corner of a sleeve. "Someone hand me a bucket and mop." She noted the quivering, bulbous growths of fleshy fleshiness on the surrounding walls and floor and shuddered. "On second thoughts, think I'll have a double shot of Old Pecuniary instead. I'd heard these human and elven Mages get up to all sorts of weird magicalness in their little phallic-shaped tower, but this…this is just _unhygienic_."

_Thleeeeeep…_

"And you can stop doing that right now, you hear!" she waggled a warning finger at the creature then pointed to her statue-like companions. "Did you do this, by the way? Did you?"

"I have taken their careth away..."

Calea rolled her yes.

"Ith better thith way…don't you thee?"

_Well, it does have a point…_she mused. It was nice, not having to listen to Morrigan and Alistair at each other's throats. Honestly, with all that to-ing and fro-ing with the insults and jibes, she just wished the two of them would just have at it and get it out of their systems. As for the braided giant trying to chat up her Warden Nug…She'd been meaning to have a bit of a heart to heart with Calew about that. On the other hand she had no idea what to do with the other one; the redhaired priestess that kept following them around. What part of 'please go away' did the human not _understand_?

Truly, how in the name of the Paragon did she end up den-mother to this collection of touched individuals?

She considered her options. Silence _was _bliss, but…Her shoulders slumped. One person against the Blight and a very determined Archdemon might be a bit of a challenge. Even for a dwarven Warrior Princess with the skills, talent and charisma that Calea had been born with. She stared at the creature, feeling a bit reluctant to act on her instincts, but knew that she would have to do so sooner or later. The thought of having to feed her sleeping companions somehow was not an attractive idea. As for the _other _thing…

Calea transferred her gaze towards Alistair. Much as she'd enjoy stripping him buck-naked and…She blinked, suddenly struck by an incredibly good idea.

"Um…" she tossed over her shoulder at the creature "I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you, you know that," she told it. "In order to wake these fellows up…?"

"You are welcome to try, _mortal_…" the demon challenged her.

"Uh-huh. Appreciate the approval, but…think we could call a break for a mo? I just need to…" She stretched up and around, rummaged for a bit and found – with a crow of delight – _exactly _what she was looking for. "Just hang on a tic? Right? Stay. Just. There…beautiful…"

She worked fast, one eye on the creature as it had begun to circle her and her companions. It slithered over to the Mage and then stepping on another Mage on the ground, worked its way towards Alistair. One more brush, a stroke of genius here, a dash of inspiration there and…_Finished! _She spun; brushes and sponge flying in all directions as she heaved her battle axe into position. With a resounding battle cry, she vaulted over Calew, axe blade descending in a blur. A squishy, cracking sound and the creature's head parted from what might have been its shoulders, landing on the floor with a squelch, bouncing all the way towards the door.

All around, the massive flesh pustules began to burst in previously unexperienced horrible ways as though whatever power that had held them in place had released them. She ducked quickly behind Alistair as the nearest one exploded; the Templar Warden catching the bulk of a nasty, stinking spray of gore.

Her companions slowly began to stir…and groan and amongst it all, she noticed that the deceased Mage was not as deceased as she had as first thought.

"Oh for the love of…" Alistair was the first to speak. And then he was the first not to speak. Calea quietly moved to the Mage's side.

There was laughter…at first…and then…

"You alright there?" she asked the Mage when he attempted to sit up. He stared wide-eyed at her, then at his surroundings.

"Maker's breath…" he murmured. "I'm…alive? I'm alive…And…"

"Caleaaaaaaaa!" Alistair called, because _realisation _had set in and her companions were not happy.

Calea turned. "Ooh!" She clapped a hand to her chest in a fairly convincing act of surprise. "Ancestor's nut meat!" she exclaimed. "What happened to _you?_"

Alistair, Morrigan and Sten glared at her in one single blast of incrimination. Behind them the priestess was searching through her knapsack, frowning.

Calea pointed out the young Mage beside her. "Look everyone!" she said brightly. "This one's not dead yet! Isn't that a pip!"

"Has anyone seen my makeup?" the priestess asked no one in particular. "I could have sworn that I packed it…"

"Young woman…" the cranky old Mage began.

Calea simply shrugged. "I have no idea what's going on," she explained, looking completely innocent of all potential charges. "One minute we were entering the room and the next, _bam_ I was asleep with that…creature thingie whatsit trying to _eat my brain_ and…"

"Maker's breath!" the young Mage exclaimed, suddenly focussing on Calea's companions. "Demons! Are you all Abominations? Is the Tower truly lost? Here," he waved a roll of dusty parchment at Calea. "Take this. It's the Litany of Adralla, it will protect you from…"

"Enchanter Niall, if I hear…" old-biddy Mage began, only to be drowned out by the terrified screams of the young Mage. Frowning deeply, the white-haired old woman walked to a cluster of shiny, conveniently placed blue crystal and peered into it. She recoiled almost immediately. "Andraste's burning brassiere…!" she gasped, "What foul fiend did this to us?"

Calea shrugged again. She noticed Morrigan had narrowed her eyes at her suspiciously.

"Yes, and _why _have all of _us_ been treated to this most interesting transformation when you have not?" she asked the dwarf.

"Pah," Calea waved a dismissive hand at them. "You humans – and canine – don't have an immunity to magic the way we dwarves have. I would say it was fairly obvious, taking that fact into consideration."

"You look like a rabbit," Alistair told Morrigan, trying not to snicker.

"And _you _look like a fool!" Morrigan informed him right back.

"Really?" Stepping up to the same crystal as the old hag-Mage, Alistair appraised his new look critically and appreciatively. His gaze slid towards Calea with far more insight than she had credited him with previously. She _was _looking far more innocent and guileless than usual. Meeting her green eyes quite frankly, he cocked his head slightly to the side…and winked. Calea stared straight ahead. She had _absolutely _no idea what he had meant by that but…

"Well," Alistair straightened. "Clearly your mother forgot to mention this particular nasty habit that Sloth Demons have," he scoffed at Morrigan.

"What are you suggesting?" the witch sneered. "That my education in the magical arts is somehow lacking…?"

And the two of them were off. Again. Despite the fact that they were in a Tower full of abominations, possessed, heavily clad and well-armed soldiers, power-mad Mages and things that usually went bump in the night but decided a day job might pay better and have better prospects for promotion. Hoisting her battle axe into a more comfortable position, Calea told herself she probably deserved this for her impromptu makeover. Shooting a resigned grimace at the bewildered Mage beside her, she helped him to his feet and made her way towards the exit and maybe, a diversion from her…_handiwork._

-oo-

It was…Over.

The chilly alcove near the main entrance was dusty but quiet and abomination free. When she had agreed to Jowan's plan, she truly had no idea that it would set such a chain of events into motion. An uprising of Blood Mages in the Circle Tower…Had Jowan known? What part of 'blood magic is bad' had he not grasped when as Apprentices they had been warned again and again? And the look on _his_ face; the memory of the pain there sliced at her insides over and over again, ripping them raw and bloodied for more flaying. It was all her fault that he had broken. He blamed her and she accepted that blame.

_How can I undo this? All of this…?_

Ella's legs suddenly lost the ability to support her. Her gore-spattered robes smeared the wall as she slid to the floor. Clasping her arms around her legs, she hunched into a ball, wishing that the stone of the Tower would swallow her whole. That was what the dwarves believed wasn't it? That the stone was alive; a long time ago they had sprung fully-formed from the stone and so in death, they would return to the stone once more.

Mages however...Mages had nowhere to go. Ejected from their homes at the first sign of magic, they were hidden away from the rest of the world where they supposedly could do no harm.

_Except to themselves._

The space around her darkened as a tall shadow fell across her. Majella knew who it was from that _particular_ ripple in the Taint and grimaced.

"How long do you intend to sit here feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Go _away _somewhere and get eaten by Darkspawn Jory," she spat at him.

The Redcliffe Warden snorted at her. "Is it no wonder you Mages are caged in this Tower?" he commented. "With all due respect I do marvel at the Warden Commander's decision to recruit such dangerous folk into the Order. Clearly, this episode has shown how unstable such persons are. And he wishes to recruit more into our ranks? Remarkable."

A freezing spell or a lingering Affliction Hex would have been ideal about now, but Ella found her magic listless and uncooperative. On the other hand, she knew blasting Jory with a fireball would have been counterproductive. Not to mention she was in a room occupied with hyper-vigilant Templars who had just undergone a bad experience recently with Mages turning against them. Any hint of magic from her – against another human – might likely provoke immediate _neutralisation_.

_And what if I used that magic against myself…?_

_I could end it here. Now. A simple spell to freeze my heart; all the tainted blood in my veins. Would anyone care? _She certainly didn't._ Would I even be missed?_

The Knight Commander had not welcomed her back. That had been no surprise. He had made it clear on the day she left with Duncan that she was lost to the Circle. Curiously, that did not make her an Apostate, even though her phylactery – as far as she knew – was still stored somewhere in Denerim and had not been handed over to the Grey Wardens. 'Lost to the Circle' was obviously not an absolute statement. It was merely a temporary state, the phylactery a last-resort just in case being a Grey Warden gave her _ideas. _

In all her tired misery, Ella noticed Jory lingered. Why? Had he run out of ways to insult her? Or was he simply preparing for another volley of attacks? She was weary of it. There hadn't been a single day since she had met the man that he hadn't spoken to her or about her or made some backhanded comment about how dangerous she was and how she couldn't – and shouldn't - be trusted.

At what point in time would he ever acknowledge he would have died several times over if she hadn't been there with a healing spell at the ready; sewing together torn flesh and knitting together bones, stopping him from bleeding to death? How many times would he have fallen behind if not for her spells of rejuvenation, keeping him going?

Of course, like a fool, she had kept healing him, kept his stamina up. He made her feel useless and unnecessary and yet she kept trying to prove herself to be useful _and_ necessary. She treated him the same as the other Wardens and he continued to single her out for belittlement and revulsion, making his opinion of her and those of 'her kind' quite clear.

_Whatever…The Archdemon take him and all like him…_She had…She had...

"Wallow in your self-pity as much as you like _Mage_. I have better things to do than to carry you…"

"If you have better things to do," Ella heard the words exit her mouth without actually thinking them, "then I wonder why you'd bother wasting your time talking to _me_."

Jory's response was another rude sound, ejected with scornful force. Ella wobbled to her feet, well aware that the other Warden stood head and shoulders above her. She was also well aware how easily she could scramble his insides, infest his brain with a wasting disease or simply incinerate him where he stood. And _there_ was the difference between them. He'd had an education, been given opportunities few were ever given. He had the power to wound; to injure using nothing more than words and a look. She could do worse to him and she _chose_ not to.

For all his superior attitude and claims to be the better person, he still fell far short. She was the better human; or so she told herself. If he did not have the ability or need for self-restraint, then she – at the very least – could make that decision for him. She could remove herself from his presence. She could ignore him, continue to be the better person.

She owed it to…

"Ah Majella…there you are…"

The Warden Commander's voice was velvet smooth; almost delighted to have located her. She paused, realising there were far more Templars in the area than she had at first thought. One in particular that she was hoping to avoid stood a little to the side, contemplating the ground as though something vile and monstrous was about to emerge between his feet at any moment.

Duncan gestured towards this individual.

"I understand you are familiar with Ser Cullen," he told Ella. "Will you escort him back to the Spoiled Princess?"

"Eh?" Ella gawped. Beside the Warden Commander, their other newest Warden raised his already winged eyebrows at her. Clearly the ex-General did not approve of her unmilitary-like response. "Why?" she added.

"Ser Cullen is to prepare to undertake the Joining," Duncan explained quietly.

"And I have already told the _other _Warden, that I do not wish to be associated with any Mage!" Ser Cullen seethed, clearly overwhelmed with joy at being conscripted. He pointed a shaking finger at Ella. "She is not to be trusted!" he warned them all. "She's one of _them. _They're all monsters! I'm telling you!"

Majella stared in disbelief at Duncan. He wasn't _seriously _considering…Was he?

"Are you sure about this?" the Knight Commander stepped up to their little group. With Jory looming over her and Ser Cullen glaring at her with such hatred, Ella felt so…_loved _and appreciated.

Duncan glanced briefly at the angry young Templar and nodded in his gentle way. Ella wanted to scream and throttle him. "I am sure," the Warden Commander added, so all could hear.

"Jory," Duncan then said, "You will accompany Majella and assist her."

"As you wish, Warden Commander," Jory saluted obediently and Ella wanted to throttle him too.

_As you wish? As you wish? _Ella's brain tumbled frantically in her skull. She would be lucky if either Jory or Ser Cullen didn't try to drown her halfway across Lake Calenhad!

Jory poked her calf with the toe of his boot. "Were you not listening?" he demanded. "The Warden Commander gave us an order."

_Urgh…_Ser Cullen seemed willing enough to follow Jory, recoiling as he passed by her. How he intended to keep his distance in Kester's boat was beyond her, but there was little she could do, short of defying Duncan in front of all these expectant witnesses; Warden Loghain included. He at the least, seemed to find this entire development amusing.

He was the only one.

_Never mind trying to be better than Warden Holier-Than-Thou_, Majella thought desperately. She seriously feared for her _life_.

-oo-


	8. Dark Places

-oo-

**Chapter 8 – Dark Places**

It was dank, dark, drippy and quite frankly…depressing. It wasn't just the lack of light. Leaving the warm sunshine and fresh air behind - death-scented as it was – had been difficult, true. What little illumination the scant number of wall torches provided felt almost _resentful_, as though having been left undisturbed for so long, being intruded upon by a couple of junior Grey Wardens and their hangers-on was an affront. Alistair wished they'd had a chance to bring their own lamps, but _time_ had not been on their side. Again. Time…Alistair mused glumly, was a fickle mistress; one that charged far too much for her services, was never available in any case and left one with a nasty purple rash that took several weeks of bathing in warm turpentine to get rid of.

Not that he knew _anything _about that sort of thing. He'd heard it somewhere, or read it, or someone had told him.

Yeah.

That.

Anyway.

The wall torches threw a greasy yellow light across their path, twisting shadows within their grasp and turning them into grotesque, terrifying shapes that made everyone – the witch excepted – so edgy any of them could have been used to carve the evening roast with. The qunari, Sten had insisted on walking point and the tense set of his broad, silent shoulders and constantly turning head reminded Alistair of a hungry, wary owl, surveying the landscape for prey. Leliana walked half-hidden in Sten's shadow – a disappointment since Alistair was really enjoying watching her…or…um, _not _watching her, because that would be, you know, _creepy…_And he didn't do that sort of thing. Oh no…

So, moving right along.

Leliana, disfigured rather unfairly by Sten's shadow, moved even more silently than the unspeaking giant. The two, slender-bladed short-swords the Sister preferred for close-quarter fighting were kept drawn and at the ready. On the other side of Alistair stalked the mabari, head low and nose twitching. Every time the jowls of the hound's muzzle curled upwards, the giant would glance down and - taking cues from the animal - would turn even more to stone. Giant and dog appeared to have formed some kind of bipedal-quadruped alliance involving a language only the two of them could understand. The only other person that appeared to have any idea what the mabari could possibly be thinking was the witch and Alistair was too much of a gentleman to suggest why_ that_ might be…

"Doesn't look like anyone's been down here for aaaaaages…"

Of course, a little bit of darkness had come with them…Now to be absolutely clear – Alistair told himself firmly – it wasn't as if he didn't like Talion. It was difficult not to like her. Not liking the crazy-haired elf was like saying humans didn't need air or…cheese. And that was just silly. _Everyone _needed air. And cheese. It was just…He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

So…

Um. _Let's break this down…_

Perhaps it was the two bleached-white rabbit skulls sewn onto her shoulder guards like bobble-headed epaulets. Perhaps it was the fish hook through her left ear. It might have even been the smiley face she'd painted on her breastplate…using Darkspawn blood. Or maybe it was because…because…

"Do you think we'll get to meet pirates…down here?"

"_Pirates_, young woman?"

Alistair flinched at the sharpened voice behind them. His suggestion to leave the elderly Circle Mage behind had been shouted down by both the elderly Circle Mage and Talion. It didn't help that the witch had lent her argumentative voice to his _against_ Wynne tagging along, though to be fair Alistair _had_ cited safety and not 'interfering, cantankerous old busybody' as _his _argument.

"Sure," Alistair heard Talion tell the Senior Enchanter quite firmly. "Pirates. They love dark tunnels, don't they? For smugglin' and stuff."

"Young woman," the Senior Enchanter returned (the older woman's voice inferring hands set disapprovingly on hips even though Alistair could quite clearly see both of Wynne's elderly hands grasped quite firmly around the iron staff; currently being used as a walking stick) "We are _far _from the ocean here."

"They be _lake _pirates…arr!" Talion explained cheerfully. "Looking for buried treasure!"

"That premise is quite feasible," Sten surprised them all by speaking. "What better place to hide looted treasure than in an unexpected location."

"Young man, you are not helping!" Wynne chided the qunari, who merely stared expressionlessly into the dark.

Alistair felt a sharp elbow dig between the buckles of his splint mail. The elf looked even more eerie in the dirty torch light, her teeth flashing spookily as she grinned up at him. Travelling for weeks in the sun had not seemed to have put any colour into her skin. She was still unhealthily pale and if anything, she appeared to be even thinner than when he had first met her at Ostagar. He'd never ever seen a _fat _elf, sure, but he found himself holding his breath again, just in case a stray puff blew her into the wall or to pieces.

Why had Duncan recruited her again?

Oh yes. Because all that lightness was incredibly deceptive. And despite the kooky pronouncements and weird sartorial statements, Alistair knew better than to dismiss his fellow Warden as just another fruit cake.

Those currants and dried plums were _deadly. _It was obvious in combat. She fought like a grizzled old war veteran; quick, wily and economical and yet was the least grizzled person Alistair knew. Freakishly sunny, preternaturally cheerful. She was in fact, anti-grizzle.

And he'd never seen her unhappy, unless he counted the recent incident at the Tower of Magi when that stuttering Templar had resisted being recruited by her. He wasn't too sure, but he might have glimpsed a hint of a frown when they had met the Arlessa too, but that could have been his imagination. The Templar now…_he'd _looked like a man who believed that the abominations and demons tormenting him from the Fade had materialised into flesh and blood and orange hair. Alistair could definitely sympathise with that sentiment.

"I smell dead people," Talion said quite out of the blue_._

Alistair shuffled his inner musings to an even deeper section of his brain and adjusted his line of sight. "Because there might be…dead people down here?" he ventured cautiously.

"Ooh! You're so smart, you are!" Talion exclaimed, bobbing up and down like a fisherman's float. "I'm so glad you're in charge Alistair!"

"What? Wait. No, I'm not in…!" he'd begun, when the giant halted abruptly. The entire party piled into the back of him, the mabari with a squelchy yelp.

"With the amount of noise the two of you make, I am surprised the dead have not been alerted to our presence already," Sten scolded the two young Wardens.

Alistair scowled. "Hey, you know considering that _you've_ just been talking yourse…"

"Don't be silly Sten!" Talion waggled a finger at the qunari's navel. "They're dead people. Their ears probably fell off already. How can they hear us without ears?"

"Hello? Is someone there?" a disembodied voice stopped them all in their tracks once more.

"Ooh!" Talion squealed in excitement. "I hear dead people! You were right Sten! They can hear us!"

"I need help!" The voice sounded scared. "No! Get away! Get away I tell you!"

Talion was the first to move, racing off into the darkness. She was followed rapidly by Leliana. By the time the others had arrived, it was all over and the dismembered remains of more of those walking dead abominations lay scattered in front of a filthy cell. The occupant was even filthier still.

"Oh! You still have your ears!" Talion clapped her hands in delight. "I'm so glad. Look Ser Alistair! He still has his ears!"

Alistair stepped up to the cell. The creature within was in poor condition, but clearly quite alive and not one of the walking dead as his fellow Warden inferred. There was also something…familiar about the man; the final piece of the puzzle falling into place when the mage grasped the rusted bars of the cell. Alistair narrowed his eyes.

"This must be the mage the Arlessa spoke of…" he muttered darkly.

"No!" the young man exclaimed. "Well, yes, I _was _hired by the Arlessa but whatever she's claimed, I am not responsible!"

Alistair stared hard at the _blood _mage. The Chantry was quite clear about those and quite frankly had had enough of _them _just recently at the Circle Tower.

"You know…" Alistair began. "There's a part there – in your statement – that sort of _contradicts _itself."

"I _was _hired by the Arlessa," the mage repeated, his hands falling back to his sides. "To tutor her son. I had barely taught him enough. He'd just come into his power you see, but the Arlessa was adamant that he not go to the Circle."

"What?" Alistair blinked in incomprehension. "Connor, a _mage_?" Then he laughed. "Well that must have put the wind up the Arlessa's skirt no end."

"The poor, poor woman…" Talion sighed.

"Eh?" both Alistair and the caged mage said together.

"Arlessa Isolde is a very pious woman, is she not? It can't have been easy for her, finding out that her own flesh and blood had mage abilities," Talion explained with another sigh.

"More likely the harridan already _knew_ the likelihood a child of hers would show signs of magic and she sought to foolishly conceal the fact in a pretence of devotion to your ridiculous god," Morrigan snorted contemptuously, causing Alistair's dislike of the apostate to rise another notch.

He really _hated _it when the bitch-witch voiced his own thoughts.

"Yes well…" Alistair cleared his throat, when the cage-mage continued.

"I wasn't responsible for all those deaths, I swear!" he whined adamantly. "I only poisoned the Arl."

"You what?" three different voices said at the same time, then…"Oh, you poor, poor, man. You've been tortured…" from Leliana.

The mage hung his head. "They did…terrible things to me."

"Wait." Head spinning from the weird directions the conversation was being pulled into, Alistair held up his hand…then his other hand, just to make sure his intentions were quite clear. "You _poisoned _the Arl?" he asked, shooting a reluctant, but _obvious_ look at Leliana. "In what way is that _better_? Give me a reason not to run you through this minute!"

"I…want to atone!" the mage declared.

Alistair stared, gaping. "That's not a bloody reason!" he shouted, the echoes of his voice travelling to each end of the long tunnel beneath the lake. "That's a distraction!"

"Hm…" Talion seemed to appear between Alistair and the mage like…magic. "If you poisoned the Arl," she said, one finger tapping her chin thoughtfully. "You'd have the antidote, right?"

All heads turned to the mage.

"Well I…It wasn't exactly my poison…" the mage admitted sheepishly. "It was given to me to administer to the Arl by Teyrn Loghain. The Teyrn said that he'd fix things with the Chantry if I did this. He said the Arl was a danger to Ferelden. I had no reason not to believe him. And now it's all fallen apart, hasn't it!"

"Do you have any poison left?" Talion asked, looking almost…hungry, Alistair realised. It was an expression far, far more terrifying than one of her brilliant smiles. It was also distracting _him_ from his anger at this whiny mage. Alistair had half a mind to suggest leaving the murderous maleficar to the walking dead just for being annoying when the Senior Enchanter spoke up.

"Young woman," Wynne addressed the more cheerful Grey Warden. "Just what exactly is your intention?"

For a moment a spark of…something flared behind those wide, innocent eyes of Talion's, gone far too quickly to pin down and identify. Her smile was sweet when she shrugged and cocked her head to the side at the elder mage.

"I dunn-noo…" was all she said.

Looking at his fellow Warden, Alistair knew – at that moment - _exactly_ how that Templar had felt. What bright fellow had ever written that old saying _'Nothing to fear but fear itself', _had clearly never _met _Talion Tabris_…_

-oo-

The news had spread from one end of the country to the other faster than gossip at an old ladies' sewing circle: young King Cailan was to put aside his ageing queen for a younger woman and a better chance at producing some royal babies. There had been some talk around camp that the problem lay with the king himself. It was well-known that despite the king's mistresses numbering in double-digits, there'd been no tiny Cailans presenting themselves for a claim to the throne thus far. On the other hand, the king had never struck Daveth as being careless in these sorts of matters. Willing to charge into the thick of battle wearing nothing but a large tea kettle and brandishing a dessert fork sort of careless yes, but fathering an entire patrol's worth of bastards? No.

Daveth's attention moved automatically to the sandy-haired figure fumbling with the tents to his right.

_Seems the apple preferred to fall far from the tree in this instance_.

In truth, Daveth couldn't give a fruit fly's poop about the news. What the king and queen did – or didn't do – made no difference to the Grey Wardens and the enormous task that lay ahead. Sure, it made the Old Geezer pricklier than a pincushion, but as long as a person stayed clear of the Warden General they had more chance of keeping their head between their shoulders and their gizzards intact. These were not matters to concern folk who had better things to do, like staying _alive_ from hour to hour.

It didn't stop people from talking though. In fact the only ones not talking about it was the Commander, himself and…

Daveth frowned deeply, his eyes shifting to the hunched figure opposite the row of inexpertly erected tents. He knew the king's lookalike had been watching her too, hence the mess of canvas and string that was supposed to be sheltering them from the elements tonight. Daveth had learned to read people when he was a free spirited entrepreneur on the Denerim streets; which folk would be easy targets and which ones would have required a bit more care and finesse. Of course, he'd made the odd mistake; the last one landing him here in the middle of nowhere with nothing much to look forward to but tasteless stew, more Darkspawn and dreams of his own death by corrupted dragon.

The mage lass now…She was easy, the same as Warden Lookalike. And Warden Lookalike was more obvious than a weeping boil on the end of a nose.

With a resigned sigh, Daveth returned the dagger he'd been sharpening to his boot sheath and rose. In long strides he'd crossed the muddy space to Ella's log. A quick glance over his shoulder tent-wards confirmed his suspicion that his approach was not appreciated. He shrugged. Warden Lookalike had had ample opportunity to talk to young Wardenette but the man had chosen instead to fiddle absently with the tents, tying knots that even a six year old would be ashamed to claim as theirs.

He paused for a moment before hunkering down beside the mage.

"You know…" he began, scratching idly at the end of his nose. "I've been thinking that if your face got any longer, we could use it as the welcome mat for whatever new queen of Ferelden we're about to import from overseas."

At the sound of his voice, Majella's shoulders and back pulled together into rigid lines. She bestowed a sunny smile upon him, but Daveth was not fooled. Her mouth may have made the right shape and the correct number of lines may have appeared at the tired corners of her eyes, but there was little real cheer behind the expression.

Daveth settled himself comfortably on Ella's log. "Jory or the new guy giving you trouble?" he asked quietly.

Ella shook her head, returning her gaze to the study of the muddy ground at their feet.

"You be sure to let me know if they get too much alright?" he told her with a prod to her arm. "We're all Grey Wardens here," he reminded her. "No rank, no titles and no nonsense about abominations waitin' to happen."

The smile slipped, but what remained at least was genuine. "Thank you Daveth," she told him gratefully. "I appreciate the offer, but I can look after myself."

"Oh sure…sure…" Daveth said. Reaching over, he patted the top of her head. "You keep sayin' that and one day, you might actually believe it."

She made a sound, half snort of disbelief, half chuckle then fell silent. The unmistakeable smell of stew wafted over them and despite knowing how inedible this evening's offerings would be yet again, Daveth's stomach still growled hungrily. He made a face and as surreptitiously as he could, tightened his belt.

"Can I ask you something Daveth?" Ella asked suddenly, causing him to jump guiltily, but she had not seemed to have noticed his playing with his clothing.

"Knock yourself out, Wardenette," he told her with an encouraging wave.

It was a full two minutes before she actually spoke. When she did, it was preceded by a long intake of breath. "Do…" she began haltingly. "…Do you think that there are some things worth fighting for in this world?"

Daveth gave her profile a long, searching stare. _Well now.._."I would have thought that'd be a question for your Knight in broken splintmail over there," he told her half-jokingly.

"Oh…I don't mean…" Her eyebrows met together in the centre of her forehead. "Obviously, there's the Darkspawn and the Archdemon and you know…the fate of the world as we know it," Ella qualified. "But…"

"But?" he prompted when another two minutes of silence fell between them.

"After all of that, I mean." She waved a vague hand in the air. "Or if neither of us were Grey Wardens or…"

"Well now…interestin' question that," Daveth leant back. Angling his head upwards, he contemplated the surrounding countryside. "If I weren't a Grey Warden, I'd probably be an epitaph on a bit of stone somewhere," he told her. "I was gunna hang remember? Noose was practically around my neck when Duncan conscripted me."

"Oh…" she made an apologetic face. "Sorry Daveth. I forgot."

"Don't blame you," he chuckled easily. "S'not like I go around wearing a sign or nothin'."

Daveth paused, watching her not really listening to him. She appeared to nod; a slow dip of her head that might have been more an effect of gravity than anything else. He wondered whether she was going to elaborate on her question. Clearly, the Wardenella needed to shift something off her chest.

"You got somethin' in mind Wardenette?" he asked, adding, "What's this all about anyhow?"

She looked up suddenly, blinking at him. "Eh?"

"Fightin' for somethin'?" he repeated. "I hope it don't involve mud and another female because I might be forced to charge entry and take bets and my sums ain't so good, you know."

Ella returned to the study of her boot. "No," she told him in a voice barely above a whisper. "I suppose…not." Her shoulders slumped a little. "Not..." she added, her mind clearly taken to darker places. "Not anymore…"

-oo-

"So…um. I was thinking…"

She held out her hand without looking at him. Something made a slightly damp plopping noise into her palm. Aerydd's bored gaze slid sideways, giving the contents of her hand a dubious and somewhat disgusted look.

"Alistair…"

"Oh, you don't have to put the 'A's on them this time…Really!"

He began to back away. Tossing the offending pieces of garmentry into the air, Aerydd caught them again between hand and forefinger, grateful for the protection of her thick gloves.

"Couldn't you have washed them first?" she asked.

He spread his hands wide. "Where?"

She pointed down the hill. "Lake. Water. It's not high alchemy," she told him.

He looked at her with the wide-eyed, innocent look of a newborn infant; slightly unfocussed and meandering. "Uh…"

She stood. "Never mind," she sighed, wondering why the other Wardens had been taking so long at Castle Redcliffe. With the demise of Arl Eamon at the Battle of Ostagar, the Wardens had come to negotiate with the new Arl for troops (and possible Warden candidates) on their way to the dwarven capital. Formerly the Bann of Rainesfere. Aerydd knew a little of Arl Teagan. He'd even been considered a candidate once for her hand, but the gentleman in question had not been interested at the time. Aerydd had been grateful. If anything, she had liked the young Bann the better for not putting himself forward.

The Warden Commander and the handful of Wardens that had accompanied him had last been seen a day ago, trooping down the narrow hill pass towards the long bridge across Lake Calenhad. They had been expected back by noon, but there had been no sign of them.

Much as Aerydd hated to admit it, she was worried.

Redcliffe was only supposed to have been a short stop for a quick chat with the Arl before heading into the mountains towards Orzammar. Duncan had given them all the impression that the Grey Wardens were in a bit of a hurry to claim those treaties. To then decide to spend a night in the company of the Arl seemed…out of character for the single-minded Commander of the Grey and she could tell by the odour of Alistair's socks, that he was worried too.

"Any sign of…?" she began, when Alistair cut her short.

"No."

Aerydd nodded.

"Do you think we should…" "How 'bout we…" the both of them said together.

Alistair grimaced and waved a hand towards her. "Ladies first."

"How long until we start thinking about heading over to find out how everything is going?" she asked.

Alistair shrugged. "Duncan did plan on being back by supper," he reminded her. "It's just…"

There was a look in his face that seemed oddly…_concentrated _to Aerydd, as though her fellow Warden were listening simultaneously to an inner conversation while speaking to her.

"What's wrong Alistair?" she asked quietly.

"The Veil is thin here," he murmured, almost dreamlike, until he appeared to collect himself in this time and space. "I mean…that is…I don't know whether you remember, but I once trained as a Templar," he told her, both proud and embarrassed by the fact. "So this place feels kind of…stretched to breaking point…Broken. Already perhaps." He appeared to be even more apologetic about having to admit this much more to her. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard, it seems."

"Did you tell Duncan any of this?" she frowned at him. "Before he left?"

"He…" He appeared to do a double-take, hazel-green eyes widening in shock at a sight behind her. Aerydd heard the jingle of metal before she turned. "Maker's breath…!" Alistair exclaimed softly. "What is that…?"

Aerydd shook her head silently, hardly knowing herself. The approaching party was indeed the Warden Commander and two out of the original three Wardens that had accompanied Duncan to meet with the Arl. Between them was a limping creature; bipedal, filthy and bloodied almost unrecognisable as something once living. On closer inspection, both young people could see their fellow Wardens were almost as grimy as the – man, was it? – and spattered liberally with gore and muck. There was an odour about the party that reminded Aerydd and Alistair of the aftermath of the Ostagar battlefields, when the crows descended and the air had become thick with blowflies, feeding on the bloated remains of the slaughtered.

Aerydd wrinkled her nose in self-defence. The Warden Commander looked more tired than ever.

"The Arlessa is dead…" he announced, more to Alistair than anyone else. Some of the other Wardens that had been left behind had joined them, looking for news from their Commander.

Alistair's already wide eyes grew round as dinner plates. "What?" he exclaimed. "I don't…_How?_"

The Warden Commander fixed his gaze on the creature barely standing. "An accident," he told them all. "Unfortunate…" he added in a murmur. "However." He took a step away from battered individual next to him, just as the creature itself raised its head. Aerydd found the air suddenly sucked from her lungs; the _lifelessness _in the man's expression, sliced through her like a whip of ice. It wasn't simply that his eyes were the colour of Lake Calenhad under a frosty winter's sky. There was simply _nothing_ there. No emotion, no warmth, no humanity. Only darkness; empty and cold.

"This is…our newest recruit," Duncan's voice washed over her. "Jowan. A Mage."

Alistair made a noise beside her. It sounded like the growl of a mabari about to attack.

"_Blood mage…_" the words emerged from the Warden's mouth strained and angry and quite unlike the normally mild-mannered, jovial young man.

"Our newest recruit," Duncan reiterated quite calmly, the tone in the elderly Warden's voice both rebuke and warning. "You are a Grey Warden, Alistair," he told the bristling young Warden. "You may have trained as a Templar, but you are no longer a servant of the Chantry." Turning to another Grey Warden nearby, he said, "Jowan will undergo the Joining ceremony this evening. He will require preparation." Nodding to the circle of onlookers, he added, "Tomorrow morning, we journey to Orzammar."

With that the Warden Commander left them; Aerydd completely baffled in his wake, Alistair unhappy, but obediently silent in his opinion on their Commander's latest recruit.

As for Jowan…It was only when Warden Aren gave him a nudge did he move, turning like a marionette and following after the others. Aerydd could not help shrinking back when he passed. She found Alistair's shoulder partially obscuring the sight of the pathetic mage when he stepped in front of her protectively, but Aerydd found she felt only pity, not fear for the cowed individual.

She couldn't fear him. In those unrelentingly blank eyes of ice-blue, Aerydd recognised herself.

-oo-


	9. Ashes

A/N: So…this story is a tad plodding, I know. I've also been a bit tardy on regular updates, so apologies. I did want to say thank you very much for the wonderful feedback. I'm still playing around with this experiment and your comments have been most encouraging and appreciated.

Well…back to that Bunsen burner and petri dish I guess…

-oo-

**Chapter 9 – Ashes**

"So, let me _review_…"

If Alistair had been paying attention, he would have recognised the warning signs in his fellow Warden's stance, caught the serrated edge of her voice. He'd have taken note; _steps_ to intervene. Instead, his attention was focussed solely on his former Guardian, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe and thinking how the prone noble looked decrepit and sunken on the large, four-poster bed in the largest but stuffiest of rooms in the Guerrin family wing. It didn't help that the room showed little hints of the Arlessa's Orlesian tastes; from the ornate, heavy brocade drapes to the gilt vases and carved picture frames. The dark décor adding to the general desolation and gloomy air.

"…You want me to find this Brother Genitalia fellow…" Calea's voice carved through the room; a bright spark in the darkness.

A choking noise and Bann Teagan's voice followed. "That would be _Genitivi," _he corrected the diminutive Warden.

"…yeah," Calea responded, her tone flattening to dangerous levels. "Same thing. Whatever. Find this fellow and ask for his ashes? Think he might take offence at that?"

"No, I don't think you quite understand…"

The conversation around the Arl's bed bounced off Alistair's immobile worried bulk as he continued to gaze upon the unconscious nobleman; mouth continuing its slow downwards curve in increasing unhappiness. Calea noted her fellow-Warden's growing despondency. She knew exactly what he was thinking…_You'd think, wouldn't you…that someone would at least change the sheets…It smells like a barn in here._

"So, let's say we head on over to Denerim to look for this Brother Genesis…" Calea's swallowed hard and continued.

"_Genitivi…_" Bann Teagan's ever-patient reply corrected her.

"S'what I said," Calea told him. "We pump Brother Geriatric for the whereabouts of this _Urn _so your coma-brother…"

"His Grace, the Arl of Redcliffe…" Alistair murmured automatically and in such melancholy tones that Calea had to hastily repress the urge swat at his ear.

"…can wake up and help us fight this _civil_ war…?" she finished. Turning her back fully on her fellow Warden and the distraction he posed, she faced the younger nobleman face-on.

"Well, _yes,_" Bann Teagan gave the dwarf a look that made him look even more suave and hawkish than previously. "With Loghain declaring himself Regent and the country plunged into civil war, we need my brother _now_ more than ever."

"Uh," Calea murmured, folding her arms and redirecting her hooded gaze briefly towards the subject of their discussion.

"Uh?" Teagan repeated, now looking suavely baffled.

"Well…it occurs to me, Bunn Teagan…"

"That's, uh _Bann_…"

"Yeah. So, same thing. Whatever. You want the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden to go traipsing across Darkspawn-infested country on a two week long journey – _on foot _- to the headquarters of the man who set a bounty on our heads to look for a missing priest who may or may not have information about a legendary relic _rumoured _to be able to cure everything from black pox to pimples?" Calea allowed her eyebrows to rise fractionally before continuing. "Completely disregarding the fact that while the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden are traipsing across the country, the horde are advancing; killing, spawning and tainting unchecked?"

"Well, if you want my brother to…"

"With no guarantee of result - post-feeding of the remains of a dead semi-deity - to your brother?" Calea blinked politely at the Bann.

"Brother Genitivi's research _ees _conclusive!" the Arlessa spoke up from her shadowy corner.

"It ees?" Calea asked, eyebrows rising another millimetre.

"I do not see the point of your questioning!" the Arlessa snapped. "Nor do I expect a _heathen _to understand the importance of such a find!"

"Which we haven't found," Calea pointed out helpfully.

"I beg your pardon?" the Arlessa took a step backwards, as though Calea's proximity to her person was not quite far enough.

"Oh, you're excused. No harm done there," Calea waved a hand airily through the air. "But my point is; no one has actually found the find, have they? Nor has the find been found to have been tested for efficacy, authenticity or legitimacy, am I right?" This last, Calea directed at the Bann, who by now was looking slightly irritated, though still managing to do so in a suave and sophisticated manner.

"Well, it's…when you put it that way, no," he admitted reluctantly.

Calea smiled sweetly; beatifically. Her smile lit up the dim room and brought sunshine and bluebirds into its stuffy interior. The Bann's shoulders however, remained tense until Calea tipped her head at a perfect, thirty-degree angle and chirped: "We'll do it!"

"What?"

"What!"

"Surely you cannot be serious?"

"Oh! What a wonderful opportunity! Please say you'll let me come!"

The light went out of Calea's eyes at the last voice. She turned. Slowly. _Why is she still here? What part of 'get the stone-fricking nug bums out of my army' did this woman _not _understand?_

"Leliana…" Calea began softly.

"Yes, Calea?" Leliana stood to attention, vibrating with enthusiasm and anticipation.

"You're staying," Calea said succinctly, adding. "Here."

"But, I…!"

"No," Calea waved her hand again. She pointed in turn to Alistair, "Him…" the haggard, white-haired old witch, "You…" and then lastly at the red-haired priestess. "And _you_ are all to remain _here_."

"And what is the reason for leaving us behind, might I ask?" the haggard old witch asked through narrowed eyes. "You will need a healer during your journey, surely?"

"Got one already, thanks," Calea shrugged, indicating Morrigan standing by the door. "And as for the reason," she added quickly before she could be interrupted again with more objections from either of the three, "One, I need a _Circle Mage _here to supervise the kid while the Templars get their arses organised..."

"I really don't see…" Wynne began, only to be interrupted, in turn, by the redhead.

"But that does not explain why either myself or Alistair must remain behind," Leliana argued. Calea merely smiled, quashed the impulse to tell Leliana that she was _just about to explain_ and indicated that she and the taller woman adjourn to a slightly more private corner of the room. Leliana followed, bewildered, but curious. In the corner, Calea motioned for Leliana to step closer.

"It's a problem, Leli," Calea whispered, the concern in her voice quite clear. She slid her eyes towards her fellow Warden maintaining his silent, though increasingly suspicious vigil by the Arl's bedside. "Just look at him, Leli," Calea pleaded. "He clearly wants to stay. He has _history _here and feels _obligated_."

"Really?" Leliana frowned. "I have not heard Alistair say so…"

"Being such a raw and open wound, of course not!" Calea assured the other woman in a low hiss. "And you know what the Arlessa is. She will go out of her way to make poor Alistair feel as _unwelcome_ as possible."

"Even knowing who he is?" Leliana queried. "Who his real father was?"

"Oh yes," Calea nodded affirmatively. "_Especially _that. You know _yourself_ how the Orlesians treat illegitimacy and…" Calea made it seem as though she were stopping herself in time, placing a hand over her mouth. As expected, Leliana leant in.

"And?" she asked.

"Oh, I shouldn't say, I was sworn to secrecy…"

"I can keep a secret. You most certainly can rely upon me."

Calea counted her heartbeats, gazing deep into Leliana's eyes. _Nug droppings…I should feel sorry for the poor sap, but I don't…_"You promise not to reveal where you got this information from?" Calea demanded softly. "Promise?"

"On my pinky!"

"Well…You see, Alistair has this – sort of – massive _crush_ on you…"

"Oh! I _see…_"

"And if you remained behind," Calea continued. "The burden of his rejection; of his bastardry and the Arlessa's cruel barbs may be alleviated in some small way by your mere _presence_."

"Oh, I can do _more _than that…" Leliana said fiercely, with a pointed look towards Arlessa Isolde, who at that very moment, was conveniently treating Alistair to such a look of cold contempt, that Leliana's hands curled into angry fists.

"You and Wynne will look after him?" Calea nudged her case a little closer to the edge. "In the short space of time since leaving the Tower of Magi, the Senior Enchanter and Alistair seem to have formed something of a parent-child relationship. Considering Alistair's past history, I wanted him to have an opportunity to explore this…very _precious_ development."

Leliana nodded. "Oh, of course my dear! I will do what I can. You are such a dear, dear friend to our Alistair. He is so lucky to have you by his side."

Calea smiled her smile; the one Gorim used to call her 'Princess Smile', because it was. It was the smile that told the world everything was just peachy, when the truth was the peach was riddled with worms behind the perfect, pink-blush skin. Then, before her conscience could catch up with her, Calea turned away, striding decisively and quickly from the room. It was out in the chilly stone hallway that Alistair caught up with her, taking a break from his depressed musings once he'd caught on that he was about to be left behind.

"Calea, you're…you're going? What about…?" he began when Calea spun.

"No. Alistair. Stay. Good boy," Calea commanded.

Straightening, Alistair folded his arms across his chest and glared. "You're _up _to something…What are you up to?" he asked, suspicious. "These _ashes…_You don't…"

She sighed loudly, cutting him off. Deciding in this case to come clean on _one _particular subject at least, she told him, "I need _you_ to stay here and make sure the kid doesn't contract yet another deal with a demon. Put your skills as a Templar to good use here."

"Listen, I really…"

"You heard what the Knight Commander said," Calea poked him hard in the chest. "He can't spare any Templars to come out here right now," she added. "You are the only thing standing between peace in this Arling and more deaths by abomination!"

Alistair stared at Calea a few minutes more, trying to read her mind with (expectedly) little success. After a short while he allowed his pent-up lungful of air to escape, rubbing unhappily at his right temple.

"Fine," he told her. "_Fine_. Just…just try and stay out of trouble…And behave yourself!" he warned her over a shaking finger. "I don't trust you, I hope you realise?"

Calea smiled a genuine smile. Reaching up, she grabbed both his ears and pulled him down for an impromptu but grateful kiss on the mouth that turned his tanned skin new shades of sunburn red.

"Good," she told him, completely unperturbed. "It means my little boy's learning. I am so proud."

Turning on her heel, Calea left him – for once speechless – in the hall; Morrigan, Sten and Calew following fast behind. Once past the great castle doors and the dead-strewn, burning, stinking courtyard, Morrigan felt enough space had been put between herself and the foolish Arlessa to voice her opinion.

"You cannot seriously believe we can find these purported ashes, Warden?"

Calea sighed. "Of course not, Morrigan," she admitted quietly. "We've already wasted enough time here. Thanks to the Arlessa sending the Redcliffe knights all over Ferelden and the child abomination destroying what troops were already here, we can no longer count on any significant _force _from this Arling against the Darkspawn. I don't know how much power this Arl Eamon has, but he's not the only bloody nobleman opposing Loghain and his death is hardly going to cause a power vacuum in this region." _Not as long as Alistair can keep that Bang Teagan alive…_

"Good," Sten gave a firm nod of approval. "I was beginning to doubt your commitment to ending this Blight."

"Golly, thanks for the vote of confidence, blossom-eyes," Calea rolled her own eyes at the giant.

"But the foolish woman and the idiotic Bann will of course expect _some_thing; some evidence of this holy woman's existence," Morrigan reminded the dwarf.

"_Ashes_. Yes, I got that _already_," Calea told them both sourly. "We had a _campfire _last night, right? All we need to do is gather some…" The party of three had just turned the corner, almost colliding with a merchant's wagon lodged across the narrow hill pass. One wheel lay shattered beneath, while the owner of the cart was giving it a rather inexpert assessment. At the sound of newcomers the merchant straightened, his face taking on a speculative look.

"Ah…something in the area spooked my donkey," the merchant explained. "Broke the wheel and snapped the bloody traces, didn't it? Now I'm stranded in the middle of nowhere with no elf to be found."

Calea stared, waiting for the merchant to reveal any more pertinent parts of his story before speaking, because he looked like a man who enjoyed passing on personal pieces of information to people he'd barely met.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the merchant failed to disappoint. "Felix de Grosbois, merchant extraordinaire and you look like a woman of discernment. I might have the very thing for you and your party, if you're interested."

"Shoo! Shoo, you pesky creature!" Morrigan told the merchant.

"Would you like me to run him through?" Sten asked.

"_Rrrrrooooooowwwggrrr…_" Calew added his two Mabari-crunch worth. Calea held up a calming hand.

"We shall allow Mr Big Berries to speak," she instructed them all. Having reassured her companions, she unhooked her double-headed axe from her back harness and pressed the head of the weapon to the underside of the merchant's chin. "But he'll promise to speak even faster and more persuasively so we can move on for those _holy _ashes, right?"

The merchant paled and gulped audibly.

"Oh..Oh! Yes! Yes, yes, _yes…_"

Calea's Princess Smile re-emerged for another airing. _Ah, I'm going to need a cold compress on my cheeks if this day continues the way it has…_Being nice to people was really making her face _hurt._

-oo-

The blood mage had survived the Joining. Aerydd had been grateful that another Warden had volunteered to keep watch while their newest recruit recovered, dreading the Warden Commander would nominate her. It wouldn't have been for long as Jowan was fully expected to be up and about and putting his blood magic to good use against the Darkspawn as soon as possible, but after the last few days of travel and near-constant fighting, she was not feeling particularly inclined towards being either social or particularly caring.

She had in fact, fully expected _Alistair_ to put his hand up for the job, but he instead decided to keep his distance from Jowan, continuing to his human-shield behaviour if the mage came within breathing distance of either of them…or in particular, her.

Aerydd sighed. It was…sweet of the young man. While his intentions might be a case of '_once a Templar, always a Templar', _his attentions were beginning to illicit a certain kind of comment from the other Wardens and Aerydd did not want Alistair getting into strife over it. He'd been playing the overprotective mabari for some weeks now. He may have been instructed to keep an eye out for her by Duncan initially, but did he really need to continue? Had she not proven herself capable of defending herself?

She sighed again. She supposed she would have to have words with him, though what could she say? _Stop being nice to me? _While pondering a suitable strategy, Aerydd became aware of an odd noise nearby. Something – or some_one - _was moving through the shrubbery behind her.

It might have been a wild animal, though a noisy Grey Warden camp was more likely to scare wildlife away than attract them. Darkspawn? There was no familiar ripple in the taint…She listened to the noise a little longer. Whatever it was, it was definitely getting closer and it didn't sound…happy.

A branch snapped behind her. Leaves rustled. Aerydd bent down slowly and scooped up a handful of dirt – the closest she had to any kind of weapon, as her sword was in her tent, on the other side of the camp – and sprung to her feet. As she raised her hand ready to hurl the grit and stones, she also became aware of running feet…then a ragged, broken shape fell out of the greenery.

"You al…" Alistair began, just at the same time Aerydd realised what the shape _was._ With a cry of alarm, she fell to her knees.

"Be careful!" Alistair's warning came behind her. "It might be tainted…What in the Maker's name is it anyway?"

Aerydd touched the matted coat reverentially but fearfully. Brushing away some of the dirt and leaves revealed badly – and barely – healed wounds beneath; some open and weeping. That the creature smelled was putting it mildly, but Aerydd did not care, bending down to check the pace of its breathing, taking inventory of its injuries and trying to make a proper assessment. She hardly considered herself an expert, but she was _Fereldan. _There was no mistaking the size or the shape of the massive skull, wide shoulders and deep chest.

"Is _that _a…?"

"Mabari. Yes," Aerydd told Alistair, taking grim note of the way the bones of the hound's ribcage and hindquarters poked up under the scarred skin and fur.

"But it's…it's _orange…_" Alistair said, reaching down to touch the mabari's fur. To his surprise, the hound raised its head and snapped at the Warden's hand. Having barely drawn blood, the mabari's head fell back to the ground, the tongue lolling from its mouth pale, almost bereft of colour. "Well, he's not nearly as dead as he looks, is he?" Alistair commented nervously.

Aerydd looked over at Alistair. "We need to take him to the Healer," she told him. "_Now…_"

"Wynne?" Alistair blinked at the ferocity in her expression. "I think she accompanied Duncan and the others to the Dwarf markets, I don't think…"

"The other one then!" Aerydd snapped. "Just help me with him, alright?"

"The _blood mage…_?" Alistair's eyes went wide for a moment, any objection he was about to voice held back hastily in reaction to her frosty glare. Having his hand bitten off by an injured war hound was preferable to the threat of bodily harm held in those cornflower-blue eyes. Coming to a decision, Alistair bent down and scooped the furry bag of skin, bones and blood from the ground and rose to his feet. "The blood mage then…" Gritting his teeth, he started towards the centre of the camp.

Aerydd took a moment to allow herself to breathe, casting only one look around her because _one never knew…_

Yes, the mabari was _orange. _There were few orange mabari in Ferelden or anywhere; the brown, blacks and brindles being the dominant colour. Though, where she came from originally, they weren't all that rare, nor did they call that distinctive, dark gold colour 'orange' but the more poetic 'apricot' or 'copper'. The darker the colour, the better in fact; the most prized hue of all being a rich, red-ochre with a smattering of lighter coloured 'freckles' across the muzzle. She knew this because the Highever kennels were quite famous for their red mabari. Highever - and the Cousland family kennels - bred them almost exclusively. Her father had even offered a group of them to the King's army, but they had been turned down, deeming them too conspicuous for the battlefield.

Fergus had not had such reservations about taking such superior war hounds to battle with him. Those accompanying her brother's personal guard had been chosen for their keen intelligence as well as their ruggedness. One of them – Ashe – had imprinted on Fergus the year before and it made Aerydd think – if only for the briefest moment – that the mabari they had just found might even be Ashe. Maybe. What were the odds of a Highever hound appearing in the _Frostbacks_, much less having survived Ostagar, she wondered? What were the chances of her brother's own mabari having survived and _tracked _her half-way across Ferelden?

It was a hope that Aerydd dare not encourage, pushing it firmly to the back of her mind and hurrying after Alistair towards Jowan's tent.

She'd had enough of hope turning to ashes to even start.

-oo-

Thank the Creators, they were finally downwind of that cursed place. Moppet did not think it possible, but she was grateful that Alistair had not chosen to linger. There had been nothing that any of them could have done. A witch, two Grey Wardens and a mangy four-legged half-wolf were hardly a formidable force against whatever horrid creatures had lain turned to the Arling's most populated area into ashes. It was disheartening, to say the least. It had been weeks since Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds and there had been no sign of the other Grey Wardens promised from Orlais, nor had any of them made any progress finding anyone else to recruit.

Redcliffe – one possible source of allies - was lost.

They had arrived in the mining town by Lake Calenhad to a scene of carnage. Moppet thought the smell of the rotting swamps had been bad, but Redcliffe had been something else.

They had found the Bann – brother to the late Arl – injured and close to death in the town's Chantry. The witch had done all she could for him, but all they had gained from the visit was not support or troops from the once powerful Arling, but a single Lay Sister; a deceptively gentle-looking red haired young woman who was quite skilled with sword and bow.

As for Alistair…Moppet had expected him to want to stay here, to help rebuild the Arling that used to be his childhood home. Instead, apart from spending a single day helping to pile up the bodies in the town for burning, the human Grey Warden did not express a wish to remain; at the end of the day walking into the lake fully armoured until he was completely immersed…then emerging sopping wet and even more silent than before.

Quiet Alistair was…_creepy_.

She hated even more that she found she _missed_ shouty, angry Alistair. _This_ Alistair; the non-speaking, grave creature quietly withdrawing into himself piece by piece was making the hairs on her neck stand on end.

She continued to watch her fellow Warden surreptitiously from the corner of her eye, debating whether she should maybe…perhaps…think about possibly going over to him and kick him off his rock or insult Duncan to his face or threaten him with bodily harm…something to put the fire back into him. That wretched expression was making her feel almost sorry for him, and she couldn't have _that_. The grief he'd shown losing the Wardens – and the Warden Commander; people he'd known barely six months – had been difficult to comprehend. Finding his childhood home (with all its attendant unhappy memories) destroyed, the town and everything else in ruins was…

Well, alright. That was difficult to understand too. Used to a nomadic life, Moppet had never felt the need to attach herself to any particular place. As long as there was a _tree _and a bit of running water, she felt mostly at home. Mostly.

She did miss the creak of Aravels at night, the comforting rustle of the canvas sails as she lay in her bedroll. There had been times when her mind conjured the sound of Halla lowing as they greeted their keeper in the mornings, moments around the campfire when she would glance across the flames and imagine Paivel entertaining them with tales of the Elvhenan, his eyes lit with enthusiasm. Even now, after all this time, she still had to stop herself from turning to speak to Tamlen, her old clan-brother.

She found it hard imagining Alistair, who had never grown up safe in the identity of clan and self; to never have experienced _closeness _or affection from anyone to still feel _loss _over the little that he had. It was…strange. And…_oh stop feeling sorry for him…!_ That stream of thought, she reminded herself, usually ended in a waterfall of insanity.

_Ah…Fen Harel take him…!_ Moppet had jumped to her feet at the same moment the Lay Sister, Leliana appeared, seating herself beside Alistair on his glum rock and taking one of his hands in her own. Alistair looked surprised briefly at the unexpected gesture of kindness, the ghost of a grateful smile passing his features before he gave a small shake of his head and rose. Her task taken away, Moppet had turned away when a rough hand grasped her shoulder.

"A _word_…" Alistair gritted at her in a hard, cold voice. "If you please."

Moppet folded her arms and returned his unfriendly stare. "I suppose I have the time," she told him.

There was a moment longer when he did not speak, clearly collecting his thoughts to arrange them into coherent order. "First," he began, "I…I just wanted to say that I'm tired of you shirking your responsibilities," he told her sternly. "We are Grey Wardens, whether we like it or not and we have our _duty_."

"Oh thank you so much for reminding me," Moppet interrupted him sarcastically. "Ser 'I'm-no-leader-I-lose-my-pants-so-why-don't-you-do-it?'."

"Well, that's going to change!" Alistair snapped decisively. "How you can travel through this country and not be affected by what you see is beyond me, but I for one will not and can not stand by, simply letting it happen! We are the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden! We _have _to stop the Blight! We _will _stop the Blight! And no traitorous General or spoiled brat elf is going to stop me…! Or else…" he paused, unable to sustain his anger, "…I'll…Damn. That sounded so much better in my head." He raised a hand, running it through his hair, causing it to stand up even more in mussed spikes all over his head.

"Anyway…" he cleared his throat and made a manful attempt to continue. "I've decided that I'm in…um…I'm in charge. So I'm calling the shots now! Alright?" He pointed a finger at her. "From now on, you're going to pull your weight. No more tantrums, no more going off on your own and no more arguments about 'why do we have to save the _humans_'! This isn't about humans…or dwarves…or…elves," he told her, his inner furnaces beginning catch alight once more. "This is about _everybody._ The Blight threatens everyone! And by the Maker, we Grey Wardens will do everything we possibly can to stop it or die trying!"

Moppet glanced over Alistair's shoulder. Behind him stood Morrigan and Leliana; the former with her mouth agape in wonder, the latter dashing a tear from her cheek. Her gaze returned to her fellow Warden.

"Um…" he added when she did not try to retort, countermand or contradict him. "Is…that alright with you?"

Moppet spread her arms wide. "Oh…Yes. Yes. Sure."

"Good," Alistair told her with a firm nod. "Then let's get going!"

Brushing past her, he strode from the camp, his rattling form soon lost from view beyond the trees at the bottom of the hill. Left wondering and slightly baffled, Moppet soon found Leliana by her side.

"Where is Alistair going?" she asked.

Moppet shrugged. "To…save the world. Apparently."

"Ohh…" Leliana said breathlessly. "How…romantic of him."

"And does the mindless idiot have any idea _where_ he's going?" Morrigan spoke up from the other side.

Moppet shrugged again. Alistair had taken the mountain path; one of the many that would eventually lead him deep into the Frostbacks. She supposed that meant he had intended to meet with the _Durgen'len_…? "I don't care," she told the other women. "He's in charge."

"_Wonderful…_" Morrigan snorted unhappily.

"We should perhaps…follow him then?" Leliana suggested tentatively.

Another shrug. "Probably…" Moppet agreed. Ambling to the remains of their campfire, she kicked at the ashes, ensuring no embers remained to create mischief after they vacated the area. As she did so, something shiny appeared in amongst the ashen detritus. She bent down, picking away warm grit and charred wood. It appeared to be a locket or amulet of some kind. A brush of her thumb across its surface revealed a singed symbol…a flower or sun. From what she could make out, it looked like the same symbol on Leliana's chantry robes.

"You coming, Pet?" Leliana's voice called from the mountain path.

"Yes," Morrigan's dry sarcasm followed. "If we hurry, we may catch up to the Templar fool by _sunset_."

Giving the amulet a shake, Moppet slipped it into her belt pouch and turned, jogging slightly to catch up with the others. She wasn't too sure why she'd decided to retain the amulet, it just seemed oddly…important.

She supposed if Alistair didn't fall off the mountain or was eaten by a berskaarn before they reached him, that she might have the opportunity to ask him. She…resentfully, perhaps…hoped that she might.

-oo-


	10. Connection

A/N: The Hedgehog Song belongs to Terry Pratchett…

-oo-

**Chapter 10 – Connection**

Talion turned the amulet over several times, making it jump from finger to finger and hand to hand contemplatively, unaware how she was making it dance between her palms. She was too busy watching the two human figures across the wide clearing and as the conversation between the two distant figures continued, the more the bright-haired elf hunched; her jaw jutting in concentration, wishing that - like Morrigan - she could turn into a raven, fly up into the nearest tree and listen in, unseen.

As she turned slowly into a colourful boulder, the amulet continued to leap and twirl, rays of the day's tired sun glinting off the edges of polished copper. Once, Alistair paused, turning to blink at her; a single eyebrow raised. Talion offered him a single, surreptitious thumbs-up then sinking her chin onto her bony knees, continued to simply observe.

He was going to give her the rose. She just knew it. It wasn't such a bad thing. Really. Was it? Technically Leliana probably wasn't the _very _first woman Alistair had met. It might well have been an aunt, or someone's nanny or…A Chantry Sister. In fact, when Talion worked her way back to possible candidates, she came up with a very long list and decided that her fellow Grey Warden must be an extremely experienced and well-practised romantic hero…not that she could imagine him making any kind romantic gesture to a Chantry Sister or…That sort of thing was frowned upon, wasn't it?

_He should wait…_maybe…when the Blight was over, so he could concentrate on…Or maybe…Talion sighed, not too sure what her garbled thoughts meant. Leliana was pretty. And she could sing. She even knew all one-hundred and thirty-two stanzas of _A Drunken Nug Can't be Bothered At All_. She was also a very good cook, could speak Orlesian, Fereldan and Antivan fluently, sewed, embroidered, was an adept in the art of poison and pastry making and could take down three Hurlocks with a single shot of her bow. It was just…

Talion's eyebrows drew downwards in a very un-Talion-like frown. There was just something…wrong here.

Something wasn't right…Well. There wasn't much she could do about changing Alistair's mind. And he'd already turned down all Talion's efforts to assist…Really, there was absolutely _nothing _wrong with giving a person a love frog. Everyone wanted one of those, surely? Well, maybe not Alarith _apparently, _but even Shianni had to concede that if that love frog hadn't appeared on Alarith's doorstep with Shianni's name on it, the handsome Alienage Shopkeeper would never have known that Shianni ever _existed, _never mind that she had a huge crush on him.

Who was to know Alarith had a deep and abiding terror of amphibians?

When Talion saw Alistair reach behind him, she rose to her feet rapidly, resolving to trust in Alistair's judgement. He should know what was appropriate for him, right?

_Then why do I feel so…disappointed? _

Kicking a pebble across the dead grass, Talion soon found herself beside the busy, narrow creek through the forest. She stopped for a moment to drink in the sight; sunlight illuminating the leaves of overhanging branches and sparkling on the water's surface. On the other side of the stream bank, a young fox sat perched on its haunches, regarding her with fearless interest, until he grew bored and ambled away. Talion, crouching at the water's surface watched him leave, admiring the jaunty angle of his frost-tipped tail and how the deep russet of his pelt melted into the shadows of the undergrowth.

With a sigh, she slid her fingers into the water, skin stinging with unexpected cold. She shivered, the rabbit skulls on her shoulders rattling along with her teeth. Before her, her watery reflection flickered, distorted by the movement of the water and complemented by flashes of silver as tiny fish darted in and around the rocks and her fingers. She stared at the ripples, trying to discern why she wasn't as happy about Alistair being happy as she thought she _should_ be. After the sadness of Duncan and the Grey Wardens' deaths and the enormous pressure of needing to gather allies to battle the Blight, it was truly wonderful that one of them could find happiness…in amongst all the tragedy and death and destruction.

Surely?

For the briefest moment, Talion thought of her father. She wondered what he was doing, whether he was worrying about her…well of _course _he was – and she smiled at the image her mind conjured in her head – he _always _worried. Whether or not she was warm enough, or was wearing her good pair of socks today or had remembered to brush her teeth…he worried.

She wondered what her father would say about this situation. What wise words he would have offered to her and found her memory failing her.

_Humans should be with humans…_? Except Warden Alistair wasn't just another human. Just like Warden Commander Duncan hadn't been just another human. They had been…friends, comrades, equals. Duncan had been like Father; giving her his blanket because she had none, his bread because he thought she looked too thin. He had always encouraged her to sit closer to the fire, his silent presence a simple comfort away from everything that had been so familiar, talking with admiration about the close bonds elves formed in their communities and how humans could learn from that. How the Grey Wardens protected the lands from Darkspawn. He reassured her…Not that Talion had been frightened. No, she had been excited, relieved that she would no longer be a burden to her father; to the Alienage. Just another mouth that couldn't be fed or clothed or…

She promised herself that she would make the most of her situation with the Grey Wardens, relying on Mother's lessons time and time again, but finding every day that she was more her father's daughter. _There is beauty to be found everywhere…_he used to tell her. _In a single raindrop…in the colours of a new day…in the smile of a good friend._

Father was right. There _was_ beauty to be found everywhere; from the rainbows in a greasy puddle to the majestic arc of blood spurting whenever she decapitated a Darkspawn. She thought the Darkspawn were…incredible, endlessly fascinating…none of them looked alike. None of them even smelled the same. And when they were gutted and limbless and bleeding at her feet, there was poetry and artistry in that. True beauty. Colour.

It was…Talion thought to herself, _amazing _andawesome. It was amazing and incredible that supposedly mindless creatures could find it in themselves to keep going, no matter what, doing what Darkspawn did every day.

Warden Alistair was like that…He…

Talion spun suddenly, daggers whirring. Metal met metal midair with a ringing clang and a shower of sparks. Lavender eyes looked into gleaming golden ones and on skin the colour of warmed honey, an eyebrow quirked beside a tattoo the shape of a wave. Talion sniffed at him…wood smoke and exotic spice with just a hint of bacon.

"You're an assassin!" she stated, head cocking to the side speculatively.

"Ah…" the golden eyed elf purred appreciatively. "Beautiful _and _perceptive. Perhaps I should have brought reinforcements with me after all."

Talion stared. She had never seen eyes that colour before…except on Morrigan, but the witch's eyes were more like that of an eagle, some kind of hunting bird. His were like little golden orbs…like the abdomens of those spiders that spun webs every evening across the Alienage gates, but were always gone the next morning (possibly eaten by eagles or some kind of hunting bird). He'd also spoken with an accent that was familiar and yet…not; some almost-forgotten fragment from her childhood niggling away at her memory as their swords crossed again and again, ringing in the late-afternoon air.

Sensing her distraction, the assassin pressed forward and suddenly…the flame-haired Warden was simply not _there._ _Is she a Mage, as well…_he began to wonder when he felt the press of her very sharp knee in the small of his back - quite conveniently placed between two vertebrae - and her bony arms pinning his to his sides. The blade she held at his throat already had a thin rivulet of his own blood creeping down the length of the metal. Despite the thud of his heart beating in his ears and the leg-crossing trickle of running water, the sounds of battle could be heard from over their shoulders. If he failed with this one…at least his people would not with the other…

Behind him, Talion gritted her teeth, knowing quite well what she was hearing. The camp was being attacked and she needed to get back there quickly. She needed to protect Alistair…

"You know, I…" the assassin began, his words cut off abruptly. In a blur Talion had brought her dagger upwards and then down; the enchanted steel handle striking the assassin's temple at just the right spot where it would render him unconscious for precisely thirty-four minutes, ten seconds.

Just like Mama taught her.

She didn't need to kill him. He wasn't a Darkspawn and it would be interesting and exciting to find out _why _an assassin was _here._ Thinking up more possibilities, Talion sped through the forest, exploding from the greenery in a shower of broken foliage. The others…were different. They were not assassins, only hired thugs, if the way they…_smelled _was correct. A neck snapped here, her blade through a gut there, Talion fought her way towards the single target at the edge of the clearing, almost too far away: to the head of honey-wheat hair and the shield emblazoned with the Maker's Sun.

_Protect at all costs._

A hound lunged at her from the side. Talion skidded, tripped, reluctant to engage someone's _pet _in battle. Scrambling back to her feet, her hand fell on something sharp. A burst of sweet fragrance teased her nostrils. _Alistair's rose…_? Blinking up at the barred teeth and dripping snarls of the war hound, Talion grinned. She reached up, finding a pair of jaws clamping around her wrist. Unperturbed, Talion wiggled her fingers, tickling the side of the mabari's muzzle.

"Oosa lubbly little puppy wuppy den?" she cooed.

The mabari rolled its eyes at her.

"You are!" Talion told it cheerfully. "Oh yes you are!"

Confused, the mabari released her wrist and stood over the prone elf, continuing to growl menacingly, though increasingly with less enthusiasm with each passing second.

"Was the golden eyed elf your Papa?" Talion asked it. She reached over again, quickly…slipped her hand to a _certain _spot just below the animal's ear. "He's safe, don't worry…" she told it as her fingers worked. "I promise I won't hurt him."

The mabari found himself sitting, without meaning to. The elf stood up and he watched her go, feeling light-headed and woozy. After a while, there was screaming and shouts of terror, but for once the sounds of battle did not spur him on to fight. Instead he lay down, resting his muzzle on the ground; the strong scent of something flowery making him feel very, very sleepy.

After a while, curled around the remains of a single, red rose, the mabari began to snore.

-oo-

"How long do you intend to mope, boy?"

Every neck and shoulder muscle tensed as _that _voice rumbled behind him.

They'd taken him off tent duty. _And_ dinner duty. In fact, life as a Grey Warden was beginning to feel like his days at the monastery; those long afternoons and late nights spent elbow-deep in greasy soap water, fingers rapidly turning into stubby pink prunes. The only thing missing from that picture was the sound of Sister Magenta's strident voice hammering away at his ears, reminding him why _discipline _was so important and how he'd missed yet _another _spot and if he didn't apply _proper_ attention to the task at hand, he'd have to do all two-_hundred_ and fifty-six dishes all over _again_.

On the other hand…another voice had replaced Sister Magenta's quite accurately. One far less feminine but no less insistent on _doing things right._

Why did they think he needed supervision anyway?

"I sometimes wonder _why _Duncan condones such distracting behaviour amongst his Wardens…"

Alistair cringed inwardly. _Oh, here we go again…_

"This is a war we're fighting, not a _marriage_ service…"

Shaking the water from his hands, Alistair piled up the pots and dishes and loaded them carefully and neatly into the sacks, in anticipation of being told that he was doing it all wrong. Why it mattered in the first place, he didn't know. When Bodahn came around later to pick up the sacks to load onto his little wagon, they'd just be thrown haphazardly on there anyway, ruining his perfectly piled arrangements.

"With so much pressure mounting as the Grey Warden _treaties _are reclaimed, one would think any _kind _of distraction would be forcibly _removed_…A good soldier always…Small bowls on top of the larger ones, Theirin!" the Warden behind barked abruptly, making Alistair jump. "What did they teach you at that monastery?" Warden Loghain demanded in addition. "How to be slapdash and sloppy? _Back straight! Shoulders square! _Bad posture is the bane of an efficient army!"

Alistair rolled his eyes, unseen. He wanted to point out that the Wardens _weren't_ an army, but found the sound of nearby laughter distracting him from this course of action.

His teeth ground as he caught sight of Daveth moving closer to Ella on their shared log; watched the crafty cutpurse fake a yawn; stretching his arms up and then around the young mage. Teeth still grinding, Alistair turned resolutely away, only to come face to face with Loghain's mocking glare.

The ex-Ferelden General enjoyed making his life miserable far too much. No one else in the camp received the same amount of attention or disparagement. No one else had his steps dogged as his were dogged. No one else was referred to by a long defunct and no-longer-applicable surname as a means of ridicule. He wasn't a _Theirin…_He'd never been recognised as one (not publicly anyhow) and so had no intention of making any claim to it. If he didn't know any better, Alistair would have been quite sure that all of those criticisms and censures that had never been able to stick to a certain _monarch _were now being heaped upon him.

Recycling…He almost felt sorry for his half-blood-brother, except that it was easier to resent the man instead. It was more convenient that way. _Perhaps if Cailan Theirin had been everything that Loghain had wished for, then I wouldn't be such a target_.

"I really don't see the _point_ of simply standing about _ogling _them…" Loghain continued in his sardonically-amused voice. "Unless of course you actually _are _a bit of a voyeur…"

"I am not…!" Alistair began automatically, the rest of his protest lost in another bout of grinding molars. He waved a hand that he hoped was dismissive enough. "Never mind."

"Oh, but I do _mind,_" Loghain countered, the corner of his mouth curling downwards.

"Well, you shouldn't."

"I do."

"You're enjoying making an ass out of me, aren't you?" Alistair finally demanded. He received as a response, a humourless, thin-lipped smile and brief silence.

Then…

"You missed a spot, by the way," Loghain told him. "On that last saucepan. Did you know?"

"Look, will you just…!"

"And your hound's rummaging through your pack," Loghain added, angling his head to narrow his eyes at a scene behind the young Grey Warden.

Alistair frowned. _My hound…?_ Wait. He didn't own a dog…Why would a…? He turned to look over his shoulder, past the chattering couple on the log to his meagre pile of belongings. What looked like a raggedy mound of scarred flesh and mustard brown fur with four legs was snorting through the pile. Despite the dirt and collection of old wounds, it had once been painted with orange kaddis; faded over time from the rigours of battle and exposure to the elements.

It took several seconds for the scene to fully register before his brain yelled _my cheese! _at him, and then the creature removed something _wrapped_ from his pack. A sound emerged from Alistair's throat; a kind of gurgling, strangled noise that would have seemed an overreaction to anyone who did not know what _exactly _was in that package…And the beast was tossing it up into the air like a ball, causing the wrappings to start to unravel…

"Storing that horrible _foreign _cheese in your pack again, Theirin?" Loghain growled disapprovingly. "If the entire Ferelden dairy industry collapses, I shall know who to blame…Disgusting stuff…Even the rats in the castle wouldn't eat it…"

"Gnargle hurgh!" Alistair said again, as the wrappings snagged on a twig and came apart completely, revealing – for all to see – what the object was. And then the beast began dragging it towards Daveth and _Ella_…

"Hold onto that thought!" Alistair yelled, his feet moving fast. Sprinting by the time he reached the other two Wardens, he used his momentum to vault over Daveth's head, landing with a jingling thud on the other side and dove at the mabari. The battle hound curled its muzzle at him, deftly stepped to the side and continued in its trajectory towards the seated Mage. Scrambling to his feet, Alistair stumbled after the dog, the two of them making a zig-zagging circuit around the seated Wardens as the hound avoided its pursuer.

Desperate, Alistair leapt again; arms outstretched. He landed this time not in the dirt or on the hound, but on an object that was soft and squishy and…squealy. Lifting his head, he saw with burning embarrassment what – or _whom _– he had landed on…

Her eyes, Alistair's brain noted as an interested aside, were the exact colour of a hazelnut; a kind of impossibly deep red-brown that made him feel as though he hadn't quite hit the ground yet…and nor would he, but would keep falling endlessly…

Ella managed to untangle her arms, pushing at his shoulders. "Alistair…" she squinted up at him. "You're kind of heavy…"

"Wha…?"

She had freckles across her nose.

"Heavy…" Ella repeated, with another shove. "Can't breathe."

Just a few freckles. Twenty-six of them, slightly darker across the tip of her nose. But only slightly.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "If you tell me I've missed my calling as bedclothes, I'm going to fireball you."

_Maker, she was…_

"Why's that mabari got a _rose_ of all things?" It was Daveth's voice that finally penetrated Alistair's foggy, whirling thoughts.

_Rose…? _His eyes widened. _Oh. That rose…bloody Fade…!_ Scrambling to his feet awkwardly once more elicited another pained squeak from Majella. Apologising profusely, Alistair pulled Ella upright before she realised what he was about to do, leaving her bewildered and wobbling in his wake as he took off after the mabari again. The war hound gave a muffled, excited yip. Paws scrabbling across the dead grass, it dashed between Loghain and Daveth and then cannoned into Majella, launching her up into the air. Alistair caught her almost absentmindedly, handing her to Loghain as he continued his pursuit of the marauding mabari.

Rose clamped firmly between its foaming jaws, the mabari gave him one more, mocking glance over its scarred shoulder and then headed off into the forest, Alistair hot on its heels. As the forest consumed him, Alistair was sure he could hear Ella's voice chirp:

"Warden Loghain…Have I ever told you how handsome you are…?"

-oo-

_Orzammar…_She could feel it tugging at her bones, as insistent as the call of Darkspawn blood in her veins. Unlike the Taint however, beckoning her ever forwards, the _stone_ pulled her downwards, dragging at her limbs with every step and every breath; a persistent, stubborn and unnervingly annoying irritant.

She didn't want to go.

As far as the dwarves of Orzammar were concerned, she didn't exist. Exiled, banned, stripped of clan, past; everything and all she had ever been she had been told never to return. Well…never actually _told _precisely, but the implication – the sackcloth, the guards pitching her head first through the Deep Roads portal…the obvious slam of the doors - had been pretty clear to anyone with more than half a dozen brain cells to rub together. And that wasn't even counting the spitting, the bets on how long she would last (and from one certain guard, a particularly nasty stink-eye) even _before _she had been stripped of her Commander's armour and the ceremonial cocktail spork.

_I liked that spork…best thing ever to nab tricky pickled onions with…_

This proximity was one of the reasons why she disliked Redcliffe. This _closeness_ to Orzammar – both physical and economical – made the Arling of Redcliffe quite frankly, not on her list of 'Places to take the Grandkids on Summer Holidays'. And this was without taking into account the fact that it was possibly one of the most depressing places on surface Ferelden. There were more long faces in this Arling per square metre than there were in the Assembly…and that included all the women with beards.

On the other hand, if there were actually people out there with a penchant for rotting corpses, the constant smell of decomposing fish and…_oh yeah…the hysterical wailings of the resident Banshee…_they would be right at home.

Much as she could understand the grief of the bereft Arlessa, Calea could only take so much accusatory bouts of copious tears, hand waggling, beating of breast and ear-piercing, screeching, hysterical howls.

The old Arl, Eamon Guerrin had passed away just two days after Calea's Ashes party had left Redcliffe Castle.

It was…possibly something Calea could have pulled out of her 'I told you so' basket. In fact, it had taken quite a bit of self-restraint on Calea's part not to do that very thing…along with picking up Arlessa Lachrymosa and hurling her off the topmost tower of the castle, that is.

On the whole, that would have been perhaps a bit tasteless, with hints of possible antipathy and overtones of colourful disdain. But after learning that the Arlessa had laid the blame of her husband's death fully at the feet of her fellow Warden and then – adding insult to injury – refused entry to Calew and their newest recruit, Calea had very rapidly exhausted any reserves of sympathy she had for the woman.

_Dammit_…The whole kafuffle with the poisonous blood mage...the walking undead…the stupid, childish deal with the demon…the deaths of thousands of innocent…From what information Calea had discovered the entire schmazoogle had been made possible because Isolde Guerrin wanted to conceal her son's magic from his father. And…also dammit…the woman insisted on the demon being _removed…_Of _course _the demise of the one thing keeping the Arl from snuffing it would mean…well, the Arl _snuffing _it after all.

With or without the dessicated remains of a mythical prophet long-dead for decades.

The sound of clanging metal made Calea look up from the depressed musings of her scabby knees. Alistair had returned from the lake scrubbed clean and pink of ear. He'd clearly simply thrown his linen undershirt directly over himself after emerging from the water and Calea spent a few long moments admiring the rather nice way the fabric clung to his damp skin, almost transparent in places…

She sighed, shook her head. The lad had thick skin. She had to give him that. After all this time and the kind of treatment her fellow Warden had been given by these…_nobles…_he was still loyal to them.

_The nug droppings for brains…_

Why did he have to be so nice? After all this time? After all the good examples she had tried to show him and he still tried to be the good guy. The hero.

"I just poops me off…bloody, stupid…"

A soft whine preceded a heavy, damp paw falling onto her knee. Hard nails blunted by constant travel over rocky ground dug into the flesh around her right knee cap. Calew huffed damp spray over her leathers. Calea scratched the top of his muzzle, causing the Warden mabari to go slightly cross-eyed. "What do you think, boyo?" she asked him with a jerk of her head towards their fellow Warden. "Think he's a lost cause?"

Calew cocked her head at her. Dipping his head, he picked up something in his mouth then dropped it into her lap, sitting back expectantly with his rear half vibrating from high speed, nervous tail-waggle. Calea looked down at the object. It was some kind of…plant? Lifting it from her lap caused some bits to fall off; slightly crunchy tear-drop-shaped pieces of deep, dark red with curling edges. The partially-chewed stem had hooked barbs. It was scented…

"Where did you get this?" Calea asked the hound softly. "What is it?"

The mabari responded by resting his muzzle on her knees, looking up at her with impossibly soulful eyes. He blinked lazily twice then nudged the flower in her hand with a wet _huff _through his nose.

"Oh," Calea nodded understandingly. "It's one of _those…_"

"A rose…"

"Eh?" Calea lifted her head, staring past the wilting petals of the object in her hand to the damp Warden who'd just hunkered down next to the mabari. He tossed an interested look towards Warden Calew.

"Where did you find something like this?" he asked the hound.

Calew burped at him.

Alistair chuckled. "I guess you have an admirer," he told Calea. Humans give other humans they like flowers. It's a tradition."

"So what does it mean if a _mabari _gives a _dwarf_ flowers then?" Calea asked him, an eyebrow lifting enquiringly.

Alistair shrugged. "Don't dwarves give each other things when they're…you know, trying to show affection; courting and stuff?"

"Well sure," Calea told him easily. "Anvils, forge hammers…venereal diseases…We're a romantic lot, we dwarves. Never forget that."

"I had to ask, didn't I?" he sighed. "Anyway…" Impulsively he lifted a hand and placed it on the top of her head. "Maybe he thinks you're like the rose."

Calea gave him an unappreciative, sideways look. "What? Dead, rotting and slightly mildewy?"

"No, nut," Alistair told her. "Roses are beautiful things. They survive through bitter winters, freezing cold and still come up in the spring blooming with colour and scent. Tough, hardy, they might look delicate, but they're quite capable of defending themselves with these very wicked thorns. Just like you…well that's…" he snatched his hand belatedly and awkwardly back from the top of her head, running it instead through his hair. "Well," he said, looking at the mabari, not at her. "That's how _I _see you anyway…so…um. I should probably go. Now. Think I'm on dinner duty."

"Ooh…Traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew again?" Calea asked, wide-eyed and choosing to ignore the deep blush that suffused the skin visible through the wet strands of his hair, down below the collar of his shirt. She tried very hard not to ask him whether his bellybutton was pink as well...That way lay madness.

"Why?" he blinked at her. "Is that bad?"

"I love your traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew!" Calea twinkled at him. "Tastes just like lichen bread partially digested through the gut of several Deepstalkers! Just like Mama used to make!"

"Ah."

Calea continued to smile. He had a nice jaw, she thought. The type of jaw she could crack nuts on…all day…

"And after that…I guess…" He lifted his nut-jaw, looking out over the tree tops to the snow-dusted mountains not too far away. "Orzammar huh?"

Her mouth turned down and her gut twisted. Calew whined again and she rubbed at his ear. "Yeah…" she repeated softly. "That place…"

-oo-


	11. Heart of Stone

A/N: Warning…this chapter contains Oghren, traces of nut and a great deal of randomness. But you guys should be used to that from me…

Thanks so much for reading!

-oo-

**Chapter 11 – Heart of Stone**

"That's pretty…"

Startled by the voice Aerydd fumbled at the piece of jewellery; it slipped from her gloved fingers to be deftly snatched out of the air by the speaker. Holding it between forefinger and thumb, Alistair peered more closely at it.

"You know," he said, eyebrows drawing downwards. "This actually looks a bit like a rose." Holding the rose-shaped pendant towards his fellow Warden, he added. "Don't get any roses underground. Wonder if it was made by a surfacer dwarf?"

"All our items are _genuine _Orzammar-crafted," the dwarven merchant pointed out sternly. "You won't find any cheap surface-made rubbish down here."

Aerydd snorted. Taking the pendant by its chain, she dangled it in front of the merchant. The rose spun, catching the reflected light of the stall's lamps. "The stamp of the Antivan craftsman who made this tells me otherwise," she told him, imitating the stern tones of the dwarf merchant's voice.

Looking dark, the merchant snatched the rose from Aerydd's hands, peering intently at the smooth, unmarked surface of the rear of the pendant. He scowled at the Wardens. "Either of you going to buy anything?" he grunted, "Or are you just here to cause trouble? I've got better things to do, like serving _paying _customers."

Aerydd shrugged. Turning away, she continued on her inspection of the other stalls. Dwarven merchants had a fondness for selling metal and lots of it, judging by the display of shininess along the busy street. She'd never seen so many armourers and weaponsmiths gathered in the one place. On the other hand, this was her first trip ever to the dwarven city of Orzammar. Even her well-travelled father had never visited the place. Dwarves preferred to travel to the surface to sell their wares, not wait for the world to come to _them_.

Alistair jogged along beside her. "Was that really necessary?" he asked, sounding a bit disapproving.

Aerydd shrugged again. "Antivan craftsmen don't mark the _back _of their pieces," she explained, stopping to look at an array of ornately decorated axes in the dwarven style. "The craftsman's signature in this instance was stamped on the edge. The merchant should have known that."

"Well…maybe, being a dwarf…" Alistair began tentatively, to be cut off by a snort of derision. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"He's a _merchant,_" Aerydd reminded him. "And the Dwarven Kingdom has far greater a reach than merely underground Ferelden. They'd _like _us to think they're a diminishing race and to some extent that is true, but comparatively speaking?" She gave a brief shake of her head. "There are few places in Thedas that dwarves do not have a finger or two firmly inserted."

"I'm just going to pretend you meant that in an economical sense and not in a…" He caught the beginnings of a glare and stopped himself in time. "Never mind," he sighed. "Anyway…" he tried changing the subject slightly. "You seem to know a lot about jewellery for a…Grey Warden."

She rolled her eyes at him. Reaching out to run a finger along the carved edge of an onyx statue; blocky, highly stylised, but still elegant, she told him, "My sister-in-law is – _was – _Antivan. She used to...Never mind."

"I see," Alistair nodded, picking up an object shaped like a small pumpkin. "You don't talk about your family much."

She shot him an irritated look. "No," she said. "I don't."

Aerydd turned away, heading towards a stall selling some kind of hairless animal in wooden crates. Realising how easily he could lose her in the crowd – even one as diminutive as this one – he skipped after her, only to have to backtrack hastily to return the pumpkin. Resuming his chase a moment later found her peering at the strange creatures. They appeared oblivious to their plight, nosing at each other through the narrow, roughly-hewn bars of their tiny wooden prisons.

Alistair hunkered down beside her, torn between curiosity and revulsion at the sight of the twitching pink noses and beady black eyes. "Listen," he began again. "I'm sorry I…"

"You don't talk much about _your_ family," she sniffed at him.

He paused, sliding a speculative look at her. Anything so he wouldn't have to keep looking at these weird beasts. If he didn't know any better, they might have been made out of junket or something even more horribly unpalatable. Especially when he realised the merchant's assistant was actually roasting one of these things behind the stall.

"No," he replied, his treacherous stomach growling in anticipation despite his eyes telling him firmly 'no'. "I don't."

She eyed him suspiciously, but only found him looking unhappily at the shop's 'wares'. "I think they're cute," she told him, feeling contrary.

His mouth twisted. "Compared to what?" he asked. "Headless cockroaches? Giant, poisonous spiders? They…" His voice trailed to a whisper andhe rose to his feet. The sound of deeply voiced conversation brought Aerydd's attention to the approaching group of soldiers. She looked carefully at the accompanying dwarven guardsmen, frowning at the absence of the Aeducan crest. She knew the old king was dead – murdered so the rumour said – with yet a consensus to be reached on a successor. Still, King Endrin had not been so long dead. One would think some lingering trace of him would remain somewhere…not so apparently.

"Things are difficult," the Warden Commander stopped by the nug stall to speak to them. "Alistair, Aerydd, inform the others that we leave for the Deep Roads after noon-break. Wardens are to provision as they see fit, but to keep in mind that we will need to travel lightly and quickly."

Beside Aerydd, Alistair frowned. Keeping his gaze from meeting their Commander's he focussed his attention on the helmet plumes of the dwarven guardsmen instead.

"Why the Deep Roads?" Aerydd asked, having some kind of idea of Alistair's current state of mind. "Has the horde returned underground?"

"No," Duncan told them unhelpfully. "But that is our next destination." He inclined his head. "I must prepare myself. Excuse me."

Aerydd nodded, watching the Warden Commander and his entourage of dwarves leave, heading towards the massive stone doors that marked the entrance to the Diamond Quarter.

"_Another_ delay?"

Aerydd heard Alistair kick his boot toe into the ground. "First a blood mage, then that detour to the village of madmen and now _this? _We're supposed to be fighting Darkspawn, not running errands for every bloody noble and…" The young Warden's words ended abruptly as he pressed his lips firmly together, already regretting his outburst. Aerydd folded her arms across her chest, leaning back slightly.

"You have something to say Alistair, say it," she told him coolly.

There was a careful pause, then; "I'm tired of running aimlessly about the country," he told her in a low voice that was still clearly troubled and more than a little disillusioned at this new instruction from their Warden Commander. "While Darkspawn continue to ravage Ferelden…" he added. "It's been _six _months since the horde nearly bested us at Ostagar and since then we've done little else but…but _sightseeing…_As for the _king…_!"

"And you're the tactical expert now Alistair?" Aerydd asked, narrowing her eyes. "You have a better way of running this war?"

"No! No, I…" Dropping his head into a hand, he rubbed at his forehead. "I'm not questioning anyone's commitment to fighting the Darkspawn, but…"

"But you are," Aerydd stated.

Alistair glared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish suddenly out of water then blurted, "Yes. Yes!" He threw his hands into the air. "Alright, I am. There. I've said it. Happy now? We _know _the Archdemon is out there. We should be trying to find it! All this…this…_diplomacy _stuff is...Wardens aren't supposed to have to negotiate…or have to solve other people's problems. We fight _Darkspawn._ That's what we do and right now, we aren't even doing that! I mean look at us!" He threw his hands into the air once more. "We're _shopping _for the Maker's sake, while people are _dying _out there, in their hundreds…_thousands_!"

Aerydd stared, stunned at her fellow Warden for several seconds before she could reliably find her voice. When she did, it was still small and a little bit afraid to make itself heard.

"Wow," she breathed. "That was…You're turning into me…"

He rubbed at his forehead again; Aerydd realised his hand was shaking and she wondered for how long Alistair had been bottling up these feelings. When he lowered his hand, the more familiar Alistair had returned a little. "Yes well," he told her wryly. "Hang around someone like you long enough and it rubs off eventually."

"'Someone like me'?" Aerydd asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

His eyes widened. "Oh…uh…someone like? I meant. I meant…smart, beautiful, witty…and you don't believe a single word I'm saying do you?"

Aerydd shook her head. When she continued walking, this time away from the market, towards the grim row of apartments in the distance, he still followed. "No one's accused me of being beautiful before," she snorted at him. "So that one was a bit of a giveaway."

"Well you're not nug-ugly or…Why don't I just shut up now?"

"You do that."

When they reached the wide bridge – one that could fit ten brontos standing tail to head easily – Aerydd paused, leaning her hands on the carved stone railing and staring down at the glowing rivers of lava below. It wasn't even hot this close to all that molten rock and metal, only comfortably warm. How did the dwarves manage that without magic?

"If it helps Alistair," Aerydd sighed. "I'm with you on this. We do seem to be wandering aimlessly. These treaties…so far all they've gotten us are a dozen extra mages, the resentment of the Chantry and a dangerous foray into the Deep Roads. And for what? While King Cailan sits on his potty in Denerim pretending the Grey Wardens are going to fix everything? Meanwhile some _despot _occupies my home doing Maker knows what to my people…" Pain stung the ends of her fingers. Aerydd realised she was gripping the stone so hard that she was tearing her nails inside her gloves. Forcing calm upon herself, she took two slow, deep breaths. "Cailan's an ass…" she muttered under her breath.

"But we're just two Grey Wardens,' Alistair reminded her. "What can two Grey Wardens do?"

"I don't know, Ser Optimist!" Aerydd snapped. "You're the strategic genius all of a sudden, you think of something!"

Alistair leaned his hip against the railing, regarding her flashing eyes and the skin blotchy with anger. No. He couldn't accuse her of being beautiful. Nor could he ever say she wasn't interesting. And he liked an interesting face, even if scowled at him ninety-five percent of the time.

"We run away."

"What?" Aerydd's head snapped up.

"We run away," Alistair repeated. "Find the Orlesian Grey Wardens, bring them back and confront the Archdemon ourselves…which I know would be pretty much the same as traipsing about Ferelden writing poetry in our travel journals…" He sighed deeply. "Forget what I said. Better still, forget I exist."

"Can't," she told him bluntly. "You're too irritating."

"So are you."

"Yes well," Aerydd replied with a twist of her mouth. "Travel with someone like you long enough and they start to rub off on you."

"Ha!"

-oo-

The silence – as 'they' said – was deafening. The mountainside markets were conspicuously empty, though why any merchant would leave their stalls to the mercy of the elements unattended was beyond her. It wasn't until Alistair began prodding at the mounds of greyish snow on the ground that they had some inkling why it was so quiet.

They were bodies.

Some of them weren't even that. Just bits of whatever was left over that was once alive and walking and eating and…"Andraste's smoking girdle, what happened here?" Alistair asked no one in particular, spinning slowly in the icy breeze.

"Darkspawn perhaps?" The red-haired Sister that had followed them from Redcliffe crouched beside a small pile, working the snow away with the hilt of a dagger. Her excavation revealed a dented helmet and hair caked with blood beneath. She did not investigate further.

Alistair shook his head. "You'd smell them," he told her. "Trust me on that." _And there wouldn't be any bodies_, he added to himself. _Darkspawn don't like to wast_e _their...provisions._

Leliana stood. She began to walk uphill, digging the points of her boots into the ice. There were stone steps here and she followed them to another area no less desolate than the first. Here, the once brightly-coloured merchants' tents had been torn down – either deliberately or by the weather she couldn't tell – long fragments of canvas and rope fluttering forlornly against the grey mountainscape. At the far side there was another set of wide stone steps on an approach to a set of doors that stood twenty-men high and fifteen wide. Scratching at the ground here, she found blood; spilled not too long ago. And then a…_sound…_

Spinning, Leliana drew sword and dagger, just as a lump of metal and reeking flesh fell from behind a stone post.

It belched; a long and impressively grotesque sound at her.

"That was truly disgusting…" Alistair said beside her, his own sword and shield at the ready.

"Ugh…What is it?" Moppet appeared, dragging her feet, her eyes barely visible between the layers of thick shawls she had tied around her head. "Can we get off this mountain now? I thought you said Orzammar was _warm._"

"This isn't Orzammar," Alistair told her, poking the prone – and snoring – form with the end of his sword. "But…" He looked up at the massive carved doors. "This was supposed to be how we got _in_. It shouldn't be closed up. There should be guards here."

"Guards such as _these_?" Morrigan sniffed, indicating with a jut of her chin over the stair railing. Alistair looked, his heart sinking with each passing minute.

"Yes," he murmured, noting that there were human bodies too…and some of them had the symbol of the wyvern on their armour…"Loghain's work…"

"Against so many dwarven guardsmen?" Morrigan curled her lip at him. "Doubtful."

"Well," Moppet announced, flapping her arms against her sides for warmth. "Can't get in. Might as well head down the mountain."

"There must be another way in," Leliana suggested. "Surely this cannot be the only entrance to Orzammar."

"…because there's clearly no one here so, no point hanging around…" Moppet added, unperturbed by the fact that everyone else was ignoring her.

Alistair shrugged, returning to the collapsed dwarf. Screwing up his nose, he lowered himself to the ground. "Ugh. I think he's still alive. Nothing dead could possibly smell this bad…What is he? About one-hundred percent proof?"

"So…I'll just go now, alright? By myself? 'Cos it's bloody freezing up here and no one _sane _would be out in this weather, half way up a mountain surrounded by dead bodies, bloated, overfed crows and a drunken dwarf…"

"I ain't drunk enough…"

As one, Alistair, Leliana and Morrigan took several steps back when the dwarven mound spoke, if only to distance themselves from the smell of bad - alcohol-laced - breath the dwarf had just exhaled upon speaking. Even Moppet cringed, flapping a well-padded hand in front of her mostly-concealed face.

"Clearly…" Alistair choked, turning slightly green behind his chilled-blue complexion.

"Who're you?" the dwarf opened a bleary eye. "If you ain't the sodding ale fairy, you can bugger off."

"Perhaps this dwarf could tell us what happened here," Leliana suggested in a strained voice. It sounded as though she was trying not to breathe.

"Got mead?" the dwarf asked, turning himself over onto his back with an effort. "Ah…Ancestor's balls…it's still up there…"

"What is?" Alistair asked, looking upwards and failing to see to what the dwarf referred to.

"Bleeding sky, you nug butt," the dwarf replied, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "Wake me up when it goes away."

"Well…" Leliana continued manfully – or in her case, Bard-fully – "Ki-Dea…Ser Dwarf. Why is Orzammar closed? Can you enlighten us?"

"Nope," the Dwarf burped again, adding more comment by way of rapidly-expelled gas from the opposite end of his anatomy.

"Ah just kill the creature and get it over with!" Moppet exclaimed. "I'm getting bored – and cold – did I not mention cold? It's freezing up here!"

"We can't just kill random dwarves randomly!" Alistair protested. "We need the dwarven armies to help us fight the Blight!"

"Ain't none," the dwarf told them.

"What?" Alistair blinked.

"Told you," Mopped sniffed.

"How so?" Leliana persisted.

The dwarf sighed and the party took yet another few steps away, Leliana turning her head slightly to mask a brief bout of dry-retching.

"King's dead," the dwarf told them. "Assembly's sodding disbanded. Orzammar closed due to civil war…stupid, damned, stone-cursed…" The dwarf stopped speaking in favour of snoring over more foul gaseous emissions.

"Peh," Moppet said, swiping at her nose through the layers. "Told you."

Alistair rounded on the elf…blinking at the sight of her, his anger quickly giving way to surprised disbelief. His fellow Warden resembled a skein of wool, wrapped up in layers and layers of as many strips of cloth and heavy material as she could find. All this time travelling up the mountain and he'd never noticed she'd been coating herself under all that…and when did she even have the _time_?

"I'm not listening to anything that looks like a tea cosy," he warned her.

"Whatever." Moppet shrugged and wandered away, poking resentfully at the various bumps and lumps scattered about the clearing. In her wake, Alistair rubbed his hand across his brow, more than frustrated at the lack of progress any of them were making with claiming the Grey Warden treaties. So far, their count of allies was a total of zero. At this rate, Ferelden and everyone in it was doomed to extinction. _No, stop thinking like that! What would Duncan have done, damn it?_

"Right." Alistair nudged the dwarf with his foot. "I'm conscripting you dwarf. When you've…um…woken up and maybe sobered up and…_bathed, _you can…"

"Sod off human."

"And by the way I'm your acting Commander, so you had better…!"

"Hey!" Moppet's voice carried across the clearing excitedly. "This one's not dead yet!"

An angry roar exploded out of the snow and ground, scattering stone and leaves and flecks of dried blood. It seized Moppet by her many layers, dangling her several feet from the ground. "Nope. Definitely not dead yet," Moppet squeaked. Feeling the layers of protection start to unwind and choke her at the same time, she added; "Um…I guess asking for help might mean I'd have to be nice to one of you people later?"

"That," Morrigan stated in her wise, encyclopaedic voice, "is a Qunari. A proud and noble race of warriors."

"I did say I didn't want to come up here, right?" Moppet called out. "Was anyone listening? Anyone at all?"

A chorus of 'No's' filled the ensuing silence. Then the giant roared again. Alistair pointed a finger at it. "Conscripted! I conscript you! Help us fight the Blight proud and noble warrior!"

Leliana and Morrigan shared a _look_, then embarrassed (and shocked) by their shared moment, just as quickly looked away. Leliana dropped her head into her hands, disbelief at this development in their quest weeping out of every pore.

In his response, the giant dropped Moppet and charged…

-oo-

"Well…that went rather well, I thought."

Talion skipped through the doors, turning briefly to blow a kiss at the guardsmen standing statue-like by the great stone monoliths that served as gateway to the city of Orzammar. Steam issued from the heated city within, cut off abruptly as the doors sealed behind them with a resounding boom that echoed from mountainside to mountainside around them.

"Well done, _ma petit papillon…_" Leliana said, curving her arm about the Warden's slender shoulders. "You have made dwarven history this day and will not be forgotten so quickly."

"Uh…Talion…"

"Your choice of monarch was…unusual to be certain…" Leliana continued, a trifle less confidently, her smile slipping, but nevertheless remaining stubbornly cheerful.

Alistair gave up trying to attract his fellow Warden's attention and glared at the golden-haired elf beside him. "Remind me why _you're_ still here?"

"I was invited." The elf smiled sweetly at the tall Warden; wolfish eyes travelling down the length of the human well-calculated for maximum discomfort. "I always like a good party."

"So why don't you go find one?" Alistair snapped, jogging to catch up with the two red-heads. As he slipped beside Talion, she wrapped her skinny arms about one of his own, rubbing the side of her head against his pauldron like a cat. "You really think a _Golem's _going to make a good king?" he asked, bemused by the shoulder-rubbing. "The Assembly wasn't particularly happy."

"They still honoured the decision though," Talion reminded him. "And now we have a dwarven army! How brilliant is that? Is that not brilliant? That's so bloody brilliant, it's…brilliant!" Curling fingers against her lips, Talion giggled giddily. "Tell you what: cutest army in Ferelden or what? Eh? Have you _seen_ anything so cute before? And…" Talion unhooked herself to skip to the staggering figure bouncing from tree trunk to tree trunk, an individual clearly unaccustomed to his surroundings and not dealing well at all as a result. "_This!" _Talion squealed, causing the object of her glee to cringe and back away slightly. Too slow to avoid the flame-haired Warden, their new acquisition ended up with half an elf hanging off him awkwardly, feet dragging deep trails in the snow behind them.

"Warden Oghren! Huzzah!"

Emitting another ear-piercing screech of joy, Talion released her victim and then twirled – rather gracefully – down the mountain path, her voice echoing back towards them…"Good Queen Shale! Merry old Queen! Sitting on the throne, be-ing…thing!"

Pleased with her clever rhyming, Talion then decided to climb a tree, hopping from branch to branch like a monkey and continuing to sing in her off-key, slightly raspy voice. She landed several metres away into the snow, continuing to skip as though everything in the world was positively, absolutely hunky-dory, because as far as she was concerned it was. Everything was going so wonderfully well. Following the liberation of the Circle Tower, the Mages of Ferelden were to join them with their not inconsiderable magical talents. After saving Redcliffe from the horrible abominations and then finding an antidote to the Arl's poison, she and Alistair were named Champions of Redcliffe with the promise of an army to fight the Blight. And now, with a new Queen of Orzammar (who had the Grey Warden's best interests at heart), they had the support of the Dwarven nation as well; seasoned, well-trained and well-equipped warriors with little fear of Darkspawn.

All they needed were the Dalish on their side and that Archdemon had better watch out!

"Whoopee!" Several cartwheels followed, Leliana running down the path to join her happy companion.

"She always been one seam short of a legal claim?"

Alistair shot the speaker an annoyed glance, wrinkling his nose at the smell. In amongst the circuitous, darkened tunnels, broodmothers, insane Paragons, people trying to kill them in general and an unhealthily large variety of creepy crawlies and encounters with dead things, he'd missed Talion recruiting _this _individual.

"Touched in the upperworks?" the dwarf added. "Cheese slipped off of her cracker?"

Alistair's frown deepened. His first inclination to agree with the smelly dwarf was only very brief, overwhelmed by the stronger need to defend his fellow Warden. Talion, Alistair was _quite _sure, was possibly the sanest person he knew. Which probably accounted for why she seemed completely, barking, irrevocably mad as a hatter to everyone else.

"She's…" Alistair glared at Talion's back, finding it difficult with each passing second to maintain his annoyance at her. This despite the fact that she'd recruited an _assassin, _a drunken dwarf, an apostate, a giant, a walking rock, a hygienically-challenged warhound with one eye, an elderly mage days away from retirement…_Andraste's butt-cheeks_, she'd tried to recruit an entire tower of Templars and half the population of Redcliffe. If Isolde hadn't been around, Connor Guerrin would have been conscripted as well! Alistair had heard about safety in numbers but quite frankly, this many people travelling together was beginning to make him nervous. If they didn't attract Loghain's attention soon, he'd be surprised.

A sharp dig between the buckles in his side reminded him the dwarf was waiting for some kind of response. "Got a thing for the Warden eh?" The dwarf did something with his eyebrows that implied whatever that 'thing' was, it was pornographic and possibly banned by the Chantry the length and breadth of Thedas.

And physically impossible.

Alistair didn't feel inclined to respond, too busy wiping his mind of the thought that Leliana might – ahem – 'like' Talion a little more than as a _friend…_not if the way the ex-Sister was clinging to the Warden was any indication and…_did Leliana just nuzzle Talion's neck…?_ He must be seeing things. Yes. That was probably it. It was just a coincidence that Leliana turned down _his_ rose for…

"Ancestors nutmeat…" the dwarf drooled. "Those two redheads are _hot…_" Alistair found another dwarvish elbow digging into his side. "Do you reckon they…?"

Oghren's words blissfully disappeared as Alistair stuffed fingers into both his ears, the dwarf left behind when Alistair's hurried pace took him faster down the mountain path. By the time he'd reached Talion and Leliana, he'd picked up quite a speed, colliding with and separating the both of them like an ice-breaker. Leliana went flying but for once, Alistair was not concerned, clapping a firm hand on Talion's shoulder and steering her quite forcefully downhill.

"So…" Alistair began with forced cheer. "Dalish next eh?"

"That's the spirit, Ser Alistair!" Talion pumped the air with her fist. "I've written a song for our travels. Do you want to hear it?"

"Eh. No," Alistair told her quickly, because he knew Talion's singing voice had been known to fell Darkspawn. A hypothesis tested quite conclusively in the Deep Roads.

"You don't want to hear it?" Talion asked, crestfallen. "It has you in it and everything!"

"Maybe…later?"

"It's a date!" Talion exclaimed, jumping up and down excitedly.

"Eh? What…date?" _Have I just missed something important?_

"Who's going on a date?" Leliana caught up, looking dishevelled and disgruntled. "With my Taliette?"

"Toilette?" Alistair repeated, confused.

"Ooh! I like that one!" Talion squealed. "How clever you are Leli! Would you like to hear my song? It has Alistair in it and everything!"

"Well I…"

The red-haired sister blurred into the background as Alistair picked Talion up bodily and threw her over a shoulder. "Can't sing now!" he shouted. "Dalish to find!" Having said that, he broke into a run, though he wasn't sure why, the two of them racing down the mountain while the others hurried as best they could to keep up.

Joggled on his shoulder, Talion licked the end of a thumb and began writing in the air. "I really have to put _this _into my song now!"

-oo-


	12. Hero

A/N: A quick warning to readers that some scenes in this instalment may be distressing. Feel free to skip the first section…or ignore this chapter altogether. It is rather long.

-oo-

**Chapter 12 – Hero**

_When had his eyes turned to ice…?_

"You betrayed me Majella."

_And not since childhood has he ever referred to me by my full name._

"I trusted you," he added. "As a friend. A confidante. I shared with you a precious secret. You could have escaped with me. Instead you chose to throw everything we had away. As if our friendship meant nothing. As if I meant nothing."

His words held no emotion, delivered as fact and little else_. _Ella looked upon the face of her old friend and saw nothing of the man – or boy – that she'd known for more than a decade. The square jaw and generous cheekbones were now only shadowed hollows and lined, colourless skin. Jowan had always been pale, but never…_grey. _She knew the Warden Commander was quite happy to overlook Jowan's use of blood magic. What the Chantry disapproved of was only a means to an end to Duncan, but…

Blood magic had killed her friend. The man – individual – standing before her was not Jowan, but nothing more than a walking, talking shell of flesh and bone.

It would have been better had he agreed to be made Tranquil.

He had followed her to the stream. Majella had known he had been close behind from the way the Taint curled in her veins. There was something about blood magic that appeared incompatible with the Grey Warden taint though it could also have been because he was a Mage too. Without another Mage Warden to compare the feeling with, she could not be sure. All she knew was that he _felt _different from the others. Daveth and Alistair felt like ticklish pinpricks across her skin…Jory like a hammer; bruising and heavy. Loghain was something altogether different, like crackling leaves or old parchment and Cullen…Cullen was a dull pressure in her blood, uninterested but a little bit resentful.

Jowan felt simply wrong.

From the moment the Taint took in his body, the connection felt out of place, weird. With the others always around her buffering that discomfiting but insistent link, she had been able to blot his presence out; ignore it. But the two of them were alone now…

"What did you want from me Jowan?" she asked him, surprising herself by managing to keep the tremble of fear from her voice. Meeting his gaze however, was a different thing altogether. What _did _he want from her? _Vengeance and his pound of flesh? Or just a simple explanation? _He had not seen the Tower when Uldred's blood mages had tried to take over. Nor had he been at Redcliffe Village, to meet the waves of undead women, children and the elderly. He had not gone to Aeonar, never had to face the wrath of the Knight Commander. He had been saved_, _rescued and _rewarded_ for his actions.

If Jowan had spoken to her before Lake Calenhad, Ella might have responded with an answering confession of guilt. Since leaving the Circle to travel to Ostagar with Duncan, not knowing the fate of her best friend, but believing her faithlessness had ruined him…It had eaten away at her, gnawing at her insides and her confidence. She had done the wrong thing; the worst thing. How could she ever do anything right ever again?

But that was before she'd seen the Circle in ruins. Before she saw the piles of dead defiled by blood mages and crazed, possessed Templars. Before she'd had to blast apart reanimated, dead children.

She had felt the guilt once. She had doubted herself. But Jowan…Jowan had never taken _responsibility. _He'd never had to answer to the lie he'd told her about not practising blood magic. He'd never had to share in the punishment meted out to the woman he'd professed to love. He'd never had to face the magistrate over his poisoning of a nobleman. And to her knowledge, everything he'd done; the culmination of his decisions; the disasters he had created had been resolved not by his own actions, but by someone else; the Warden Commander.

And now he quoted betrayal at her.

Betrayal? Yes. Jowan would know all about _that, _wouldn't he?

"Why?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. "Why did you tell Irving about our plan? You didn't have to, didn't have tell him anything. We could have escaped. We almost escaped. The three of us. Why did you change your mind?"

Ella's eyes closed, praying silently for calm, though what god would answer her prayer she did not know. It wasn't as if she ever _believed. _

"My phylactery was in Denerim," she told him.

Jowan frowned. "What does that have to do with…"

"You! Mages! What are you doing? Conspiring against us? A…a _blood mage _and an apostate!"

Jowan spun, fists clenching at his sides and ice flashing in his eyes. Ella sunk her head into her hand. _Cullen…_with perfect timing as usual. She raised her head, words of explanation bubbling up through her throat when - instead of dismissing the encounter with the auburn-haired Templar as just another one of his little pouts - Jowan went on the attack, stepping towards Cullen with a growl of anger.

"This has nothing to do with you, Templar!" Jowan bellowed, drawing his dagger from his belt. At the same time as the stripe of blood appeared on Jowan's outstretched palm, Cullen drew his longsword, lips moving rapidly.

Expelling a cry of exasperation, Ella threw up her hands, swinging her arms around to try and knock Jowan aside. It completely failed. Her vision went white briefly before the scenery flew past, a tree trunk halting her flight across the forest floor. She had the vaguest glimpse of Jowan diving behind a mossy stump before a brown and silver blur obscured her sight.

"You alright?" It was Alistair, half his chin covered in soap and a wash cloth tucked into the neck of his mail shirt. "Can you cast?"

Ella winced and shook her head. She'd tried a couple of paralysis fields around both Cullen and Jowan – again – and both had failed. "Cullen was pretty quick at getting rid of my mana," she told him then frowned. "What have you been doing to your face?" she asked.

"Shaving," was his short answer. "I was down at the stream when I saw…" He ducked his head. "Never mind…" He turned back to the Mage and ex-Templar battling nearby, spells and anti-magic charms whizzing back and forwards audibly between the two. "Maker dammit!" Alistair cursed under his breath. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to find wide, pleading eyes on him.

"Don't," Ella whispered. "If he doesn't have magic, he won't be able to defend himself…"

Alistair shook his head. "After what he said to you?" he growled. "You're still on his side?"

Ella's expression crumpled, her head bowed. "You heard that?"

He touched her shoulder, briefly. "I'll take care of Cullen," he added grimly, causing her head to jerk upwards. Too late. Jowan stumbled back from a Holy Smite a moment before Alistair charged at Cullen. Only when he was a mere few paces away from the other ex-Templar Warden that Majella realised Alistair was unarmed…and only wearing a mail shirt and leather breeches. Even if she had any magic to use, it would have been too late to cast Rock Armour on him, flinching as he dove under Cullen's swinging longsword.

"Traitor!" Cullen yelled, bringing his sword around in another arc.

Ella was vaguely aware of other approaching figures, being too intent on keeping an eye on Alistair and Cullen as well as Jowan; who'd began creeping like a wounded animal down the hill, to register who they were. Her focus spun dizzily until it rested on Jowan. _Running away again…?_ Ella sprang to her feet, ignoring the hideously sharp pain in her left shoulder to hurl herself onto the other Mage. Clutching at his hair she slammed his head into the ground. "Idiot!" she screamed at him. "You can damn well stay where you are!"

Someone behind gave a shout. Ella lifted her head above the dried bracken where Jowan lay to find the Warden Commander, Loghain and Daveth on the top of the hill.

"What in the Maker's name is going on here?" Duncan demanded. Ever obedient, Alistair turned, the sound of his Commander's voice causing him to pause; a tragic distraction. He missed Cullen's sword thrusting upwards, failed to turn aside in time, the chain mail no protection against a longsword wielded at close quarters. There was a screeching sound as the blade of the longsword sliced through the links of chainmail…and Alistair's small cry of surprise to find himself impaled on an ally's sword.

Time stopped completely, falling out of the world in a single snap. Dust motes and fern spores danced across Ella's field of vision, suspended by sunlight and her last exhaled breath.

Loghain was the first to move. Racing towards Cullen, his fist drew backwards. His metal gauntlet slammed into the side of the young ex-Templar's face. Cullen fell unconscious to the forest floor, the same time as Alistair collapsed to his knees, his face ashen in shock and disbelief. Making an effort he lifted his head towards Ella. His lips moved but no sound emerged. Shoulders and head drooping, he fell to the forest floor, blood pooling at the hilt of Cullen's sword. It seemed to Ella that she could hear Alistair's blood falling to the ground…and the earth drinking it thirstily.

Then another voice…melodious as a murmuring brook and deep as the night sky…"So…_this _is your famed Grey Wardens, hm? Ferelden _is_ doomed."

-oo-

The great metal doors of the dwarven city Orzammar still boomed in his head, despite the Frostbacks being far behind them. While it was good to breathe fresh air and have the open sky above them again, the task of finding a Dalish clan – and one that could accept the terms of the Grey Warden Treaty on behalf of other clans – was another mountain they had yet to scale. He had little information about the Dalish themselves, much less about their movements across Ferelden. All he knew was that they moved frequently, stayed clear of human settlements and rarely interacted with anyone else, even for trade. Nor did he have any idea how each clan kept in contact with each other…if they ever did.

"_Oh my stars_…!" Alistair looked up at the disgusted exclamation, to see Wynne shielding her eyes against the vision before her. "Is this something we have to see? _Really_?"

The object of her complaint lay spreadeagled and mostly-naked on the forest floor. The dwarf…'warrior' they had obtained in Orzammar cradled an empty flagon to his chest, wearing only the dwarven equivalent of smallclothes…with the emphasis on _small _and less on the 'clothes'. The angle at which the dwarf lay and the lack of appropriate coverage gave rise to…

Alistair's jaw dropped and he blinked. He rubbed at his eyes, just in case he was seeing things, but no, no…his vision was just fine.

Unfortunately.

_Perhaps the word 'rise' isn't something I should be using here…even if it is appropriate._

"Maker's nut…_damn…_" Alistair stood so quickly the blood failed to reach his brain fast enough and he swayed, needing to wait for his circulation to catch up before he could move.

"Can someone _please _remove this…this…from my sight?" Wynne demanded.

"Would it not be better to remove _yourself_ old woman?" Morrigan sniffed as she passed. "And rid us all of your constant sniping and complaints?"

"And you would know all about sniping, wouldn't you Morrigan?" Wynne countered.

_Oh…here we go again…_Alistair grimaced, his gaze wandering about the camp for the familiar head of dark braids and green ribbon. Calea normally had an unerring instinct for brewing storms between their companions, able to diffuse them to nothing more than warm puffs of random air. She was like a miniature, one-dwarf diplomatic corps at times. He had been about to head into the forest to go and look for her, when a hand touched his arm.

"Alistair…"

The young Warden tore his eyes from the bickering Mages to the young woman beside him. "Yeeess…?" he drawled, dragging his attention to the side.

"I have information that there is a clan of Dalish not far from here, seen on the other side of the Imperial Highway. I hear they are preparing to leave. We should move quickly to meet them."

"Oh…?" Alistair began. "It's…" He found he had to take a step backwards, finding Leliana suddenly a little too _close _for comfort. Perhaps it was coincidence, but ever since Redcliffe Leliana had been rather…odd towards him. He thought feeling about twelve years old around the Senior Enchanter was bad enough. Around Leliana he felt even younger, greener…_stupid._ And he did not consider himself a stupid person. Well, not Morrigan-stupid anyway. And just because it was easier to act dumb rather than get stuck in pointless, endless arguments didn't mean that….

"Alistair! Are you listening to me?"

"Dalish," he repeated faithfully. "Nearby. Recent information."

"I did not say 'recent'," she corrected him.

"Nuhhhh…" Alistair took another step backwards finding her up close again. So close he could see the tiny folds that made up the irises in her eyes. They were…frilly, like her.

"You have been washing your ears regularly, have you not?" Leliana demanded. "Sometimes a build up of wax in the ears can affect the ability to hear correctly."

Alistair stared at the redhead. "Yeahhhh…" He also supposed his monosyllabic responses were not helping, but Morrigan and Wynne's spat was becoming more combative (well, more than usual anyway), more strident and more in need of _intervention. _Meanwhile he really, really needed to put some permanent space between himself and the young Chantry Sister.

She tut-tutted at him. "You are worse than a child at times, Alistair," she told him. "Come here. I will take you to that stream and wash them myself."

"No, ah no thanks," Alistair told her hastily, his backward movement gathering speed as she continued to advance on him.

"But they are such _pretty _ears," Leliana told him with a small pout. "It would be such a pity not to maintain them properly."

"Ah. Nuh. Um. _Guhhh_…" he stuttered, placing hands over both his ears protectively. _Wash his ears? That was so…so…!_ "It's very kind of you, Leliana," he spoke quickly, "But there is something – suddenly I remember - to discuss with my fellow Warden." He removed his hands from his ears to hold them in front of himself, like a shield. "So you wait here and…um…keep thinking about ears and I'll be…Going. Now."

"Oh you can find her by that little Avvar shrine, on the other side of that stream!" Leliana called after the dust trail that used to be Alistair.

"Alistair! Where are you going?" he heard Wynne's shout. "We have not resolved this issue!"

"No, we have not!" Morrigan snapped at the Circle Mage as Alistair broke into a run. "As _you _are still here!"

Sprinting with absolutely no idea where he was going, Alistair eventually ended up surrounded by waist-high bracken and mossy tree trunks stretching almost endlessly into the sky. He paused, bracing his hands on his thighs while he caught his breath, when he heard a rustling noise nearby. He looked up cautiously, narrowing his eyes at the moving greenery then sighed.

There was never mistaking that smell.

Calea's odorous mabari trotted towards him covered in fern spores and leaves. Up close, the war hound gave himself an almighty shake, covering Alistair in debris and causing the Warden to explode in a fit of sneezing. The last of explosions over, Alistair wiped at his streaming eyes and bent down to regard the mabari.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Calea is, would you?"

Calew's jaw fell open and his large pink, slobbery tongue unrolled from his mouth in a canine grin. He panted a couple of times at Alistair noncommittally.

"So let me rephrase that," Alistair continued. "Will you take me to her?"

Calew turned with a half-bark back through the bracken. Alistair wasn't quite sure how, but while the mabari managed to navigate between the interweaving branches of fernery without snapping a leaf or twig, he still managed to have plenty whack Alistair with wet fronds as the Warden followed. Calea, as it turned out was not far, sitting on a tuft of moss atop an ancient tree stump. Shafts of afternoon sun framed her outline, glinting off her still-grubby armour. Alistair frowned. That was unlike Calea. She was usually fastidious about maintaining clean equipment.

She did not even acknowledge him when he approached or even after he'd positioned himself on an adjacent log, the better to observe her. She looked…small and defeated, even though their party had just come out of Orzammar looking pretty damned shiny. The dwarves had a new king, they'd solved the mystery of the missing Paragon, discovered important and valuable history and had amassed almost enough treasure to _buy _Ferelden. He had a brand new, brilliant dwarven smith-forged sword, a set of enchanted armour that he could probably dance the Remigold in and had won the – hopefully – everlasting gratitude (and promise of troops) from the new king against the Blight.

"You know…" he began. "Being out here on your own, you're missing some exciting things back at the camp." No response. "Morrigan and Wynne are just about to eat each other. My bet is on Morrigan. If she doesn't turn into some kind of horrible, ravenous beast, you can shave my arse and call me Warden Baboon."

It was like talking to a rock.

And Alistair _had _talked to a rock before. Honestly, the rock had been more animated than his fellow Warden. With fashion tips.

"Calea…"

"Have I done the right thing Alistair?"

He noticed that her hands twisted in her lap; a nervous gesture so out of character with the normally self-confident, vivacious Warden that Alistair was _really _worried.

"Oh I don't know," Alistair forced a laugh. "I think we – you – did quite well. We do good work, considering we're new at this whole…saving the world thing."

Calea looked down, fiddling with the buckles on her knee guards. Alistair sighed and placed a hand over hers, his hand looking stupidly large and awkward in comparison. Maker, the difference in size between the two of them was so…so _weird_. And it wasn't as if he thought she was abnormally tiny. No, she was the one who was the proper size. It was _him _that was freakishly huge, bumbling-about cluelessly like a boulder with legs.

"I wanted to choose Uncle Py…Lord Harrowmont," she told him then shook her head. "But he would have been dead within the week. His heart's in the right place but…His heart's too much in the right place. He'd make an easy assassin's target."

"Then you did him a favour by putting the other one in charge," Alistair told her firmly.

Her upper lip curled. "My lying, cheating, two-faced, stone-hearted, nug's arse of a brother you mean?"

"Well…" Alistair tried to keep his tone light, but it was a struggle. "Look at it this way: the new King Bhelen will have the opportunity to lift tyranny to an art form. That could be quite a feat. He has to have _something _to remind the world he existed."

She snorted her opinion of that. "After the Blight, you can bet your bronto's bum bits Bhelen'll have Orzammar closed to the outside world, holding the trade of metals and lyrium to ransom."

"You really believe that?" Alistair frowned.

"I _know _it," Calea nodded. Her head bowed again. "Bhelen's a paranoid git. He believes surfacer dwarves are going to corrupt the rest of us. I may talk up the glory of the Dwarven Kingdoms," she murmured, "but the fact is the race of dwarves is a dying one. Birth rates are low, even amongst the casteless and we treat them no better than animals. The number of dwarves leaving for the no-caste life of the surface increases every year. I don't know when it'll happen, but there'll be more dwarves living above ground than under it…abandoning the for every twenty dwarves killed by Darkspawn in the Deep Roads barely a single child is born. Those kinds of odds…" She shook her head.

"I hate it," she stated in a shaky voice. "I hate the thought that my people will one day be nothing more than a few names scratched onto a bit of rock. That everything we've achieved, everything we've done, the contribution that generations of Paragons and hard-working dwarves have made will be forgotten; lost to dead Thaigs and Darkspawn."

"Ohh…" Alistair said slowly. He gave her hands a confident squeeze. "I don't know about that. Not while there are folk like our friendly Mr Feddic about."

Calea scowled at him. "That thieving criminal who calls himself a 'merchant'?" she began, to find Alistair waggling a scolding finger at her.

"Uh, uh, uh," he tsked. "There you go again, being all Princess Snobbity," he scolded. "Bodahn may not be the most…scrupulous of businessmen – I _heard_ that – but he's good at promoting dwarfism…uh, dwarfness. No that's not right. Dwarfanity?" He dropped his head into his hand. "Oh, let me start over."

He found her hand resting on top of his head. "No," she said, a soft plea in her clear green eyes. "Don't. Your brain will explode and I'll have to pay someone to clean it up or…" she shuddered. "Just don't."

"Huh," he made a face at her. "I feel so under appreciated right now."

The ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting and insubstantial. "I appreciate you," she stated, something of her forceful personality returning. Alistair rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what she meant.

"You're going to say 'because I'm your human shield', aren't you?"

"Yup," she grinned – finally – unrepentant.

"Greaaaaaaat," Alistair drawled. "Have I mentioned how under appreciated I feel? Yes? Guess it won't hurt to say it again…under…apprec…eee…ate…ed."

"Ass."

"Snob."

In a strange, accented voice, Calea added, "But you do have such pretty ears! You _must _allow me to clean them some time!"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You know, I get the feeling you might have had something to do with that." He poked her knee, not fooled in the least by the bland expression she presented him with in response to this accusation. "Hah! I knew it! Behind every Alistair barb and insult there is a sarcastic dwarf with green ribbons in her hair."

Calea's response was to raise the altitude of her nose. He poked her knee again. "So," he demanded the return of her attention. "You ready?"

"Ready for what?" she looked down the length of her – rather cute and tiny – nose at him.

"To be one of the two Grey Warden heroes in Ferelden? There is still the Dalish to find and Maker knows what kind of nutty, screwy, arse-biting problem we'll have to fix for _them_."

"Arse biting?" she enquired.

"Best I could think of on short notice," he informed her promptly then stood. He held out his hand. Tucking his other arm behind his back, he bowed at the waist. "My Lady Warden?"

Calea eyed his hand distrustfully, yet placed her hand in his all the same.

"Yeah," she shrugged, allowing him to pull her to her feet. "Why the nug crap not? We've faced undead, ghouls, abominations, angry spirits and possessed crawlers. It's about time we threw some vampires and werewolves in there."

"Vampires and werewolves?" Alistair scoffed. "Now you're just being silly!"

-oo-

The noise was akin to a large, overexcited mosquito at an all you can suck blood buffet. Alistair barely found enough energy to move his head for a better look. The best he could manage was a slight shift in his gaze from the end of his nose to his left nostril. _Maker, I'm tired…_It wasn't a fighting Darkspawn all day kind of tired or a chopping wood, cleaning out the garderobes, peeling buckets of potatoes, washing dishes and polishing every set of plate armour in the monastery kind of a tired either but an everything, all-encompassing weariness that extended beyond mere flesh, blood and bone.

His mind had some time ago hung up a sign telling the inside of his eyeballs that it had gone on a long, long holiday to the seaside and to not expect any souvenirs any time soon. Even his toenails were exhausted; the entire picture of slumped, armoured Grey Warden making him look like he'd melted to the rock he'd been sitting on. One couldn't quite tell where stone ended and person began.

Not that he cared. _Maker…I'm so tired…_

"Eeeeeh…!" That noise again, biting insect-like and far, far too energetic. Alistair felt what little life force he'd had left in reserve being drained away by that noise.

"Eeeeeh…!" Except that the noise wasn't coming from a mosquito, gnat or other biting insect but another kind of creature; the two legged, orange spiky-haired kind, gambolling around the huge bonfire in the middle of the circle of _Aravels _as though she _hadn't _just been fighting werewolves, shonky near-immortal elven mages, shambling corpses, darkspawn, dragonets, Shrieks and Shades…

"Oh my!"

A hand bracing her back, Senior Enchanter Wynne gingerly lowered herself slowly and painfully to an accompanying rock beside Alistair. Normally he would have assisted her, but simply thinking about the possibility of perhaps, maybe, helping her was too draining. By the time he'd decided he should think of doing anything, she was already seated.

"Where does she find the energy?" Wynne asked.

Alistair hoped that was a rhetorical question. The act of moving his tongue or attempting to force air from his lungs past his vocal chords made him want to curl up for months of restful, blissful sleep.

"Another tattoo?"

Leliana limped from behind them, making it as far as a neighbouring tree trunk, leaning against it with effort. A soggy flumping noise followed as the mabari Yu appeared from out of the surrounding shrubbery. The effort of his arrival to this spot taking away the ability to do anything else, he simply allowed all four legs to collapse beneath him, jaws clicking together as his head was the last to hit the ground. Then he slowly rolled onto his side like a capsizing ship, his canine moan of pain and exhaustion like the creaking timbers of said ship.

"It seems the only person who can keep up with her is Ser Zevran," Leliana sighed, taking Yu's lead and letting her knees fold beneath her, sliding down the length of the tree into a heap.

"How he manages to remain immaculately groomed and clean during battle is nothing short of miraculous…magical even," Wynne muttered. Despite the collective exhaustion, all heads turned to the elderly Mage in disbelief.

"Well?" she waved a hand airily, "I should know."

"It's another tattoo," Leliana repeated. Heads turned towards the tree. "She's gotten one for every ally we have recruited thus far," the young Sister explained. "And she intends to have one done for each of us."

"I hope you don't mean she wants one of _us _to…" Wynne began to protest.

"Oh no. One tattoo on a part of her body to represent each of her companions," the Bard explained. Leliana turned sly eyes onto Alistair's listless bulk, which had now slid off the rock and was sprawled across the forest floor. "You'll never guess where she put _yours _Alistair."

"Mm m ng grn nng…" Alistair began – to find himself prodded quite sharply by the end of a Mages' staff. "I was saying…" he started over, still slurring his words, "that you needn't try to make me blush. She's already _shown _me where she put me."

"And where…?"

"Not telling," Alistair crossed his arms stubbornly across his chest. "Gentlemen don't peek and tell."

"Maker preserve us!"

_That's not what I said, but it was close…_Alistair mused to himself, the memory causing his ears to redden even now.

"Eeeeeh…!"

"Besides," he added, tipping his head backwards and closing his eyes. "You're wrong. It's not another tattoo. That squeal's not her tattoo squeal."

"Oh?" Leliana wiggled an eyebrow at the prone Warden. "You know her so _well_, Alistair?"

Alistair couldn't be bothered rolling his eyes at her, so he simply _thought _it instead. _And anyway…_why were all these people here? Couldn't they find somewhere else to rest up? _Do they have to bother me? _

"That's her 'another piercing' squeal," Alistair explained in a flat, uninterested voice because no doubt he'd be shown where _that _was too and he was just too tired to make it all the way down to the river to try and wash the image away. Though…One eye peeled open, looking across the mossy forest clearing to the rather plain _Aravel _tucked behind all the others. _That Dalish Arms Master…_His talents did not only lie in weapon-making. The last time he and Talion were looking at Master Varethorn's wares there was a small collection of creatures fashioned from ironwood. Talion had shown an interest in a charm shaped like a rat, but had resolutely left it behind, spending their sovereigns instead on a pair of enchanted daggers for Leliana and Zevran.

Considering how many times she'd passed over better weaponry for herself to outfit everyone else perhaps it was time he did something for _her. _He owed it to her. They all did. She kept them going, kept their spirits up even on the greyest of days. It would be nice to do something for her for a change.

"Aieeee…!"

Alistair's eyes snapped open. Before he knew it, Talion herself had come bouncing over looking more like a Halla fawn on a spring run than a fierce Grey Warden warrior.

"Ser Alistair! Ser Alistair! Lookee, lookee, lookee!" She bounded over the sleeping mabari and landed lightly beside him. She flicked her ear, the tiny, cleverly-crafted piece of ironwood swinging from her right earlobe causing him to sit painfully and suddenly upright. "Lookee what Ser Zevran gave to me! It looks ever so much like Blip! Do you think so too? Do you, huh? Do you?"

Alistair squinted at the…rat hanging from the fine silverite ring, his eyes automatically shifting to the slender elf strolling towards them. The assassin was _smirking, _looking a little too pleased with himself.

"Ser Alistair?" Talion tugged at a buckle strap anxiously. "You don't like it?"

Alistair placed his hand – with effort because it hurt so much – on Talion's shoulder. "It suits you," he told her; her face exploding into a happy Satinalia wreath of happiness as he did.

For the Assassin, however, he reserved a darker look.

He'd have to watch that one even more closely from now on it seemed…

-oo-


	13. Surprise

A/N: Sorry this chapter's taken so long to get out. It's been throwing tantrums at me and refusing to come out of that little corner for weeks. I'd run out of things to lure it out into the open with…So it's a tad longer than usual. And a little bit grumpy.

-oo-

**Chapter 13 – Surprise**

The iron scent of blood continued to cling to her like a second set of armour, even after a good scrub in the freezing cold waters of Lake Calenhad. For once she didn't care how cold she was, shedding her layers methodically and resolutely; each layer lowering the temperature of her body piece by piece until her skin felt as numb and frozen as her insides. Her precious collection of knitted and woven scarves, gloves and vests lay strewn and sodden on the lake shore, but no amount of clothing and insulation had seemed to penetrate her stubborn muscles all the way to her core; even if her thoughts were as frigid and desolate as the wintry Ferelden weather.

It was…difficult, this realisation. The discovery – possibility – that there were no Dalish to be found.

No Dalish. Anywhere.

The reports of the clans going north and east to leave Ferelden appeared to be true it seemed. She had been hoping that the information provided by the cloyingly annoying priestess would be proven to be wrong. The Dalish would never abandon this country, but…that was the nature of the Dalish was it not? No roots, no permanency, a wheeled conveyance their home, the shifting winds their compass. There was no true country any more; no place they could truly call their own…

_Their…_

Moppet's breath caught sharply in her throat at the way her brain now saw those of her own race. '_Their'_ and not '_mine'_, though she'd had no idea when this mental shift had occurred. Was it a Grey Warden thing? The taint doing something to her head? Her connection to the Darkspawn did appear to take up more of her time and thought than she would have liked. She supposed it didn't matter now. The discovery of the ruined Elven campsite, littered with tattered, torn bodies – both elf and half-wolf – made mere cultural claims trivial.

All that devastation and death. _How did this happen?_ How _could _this happen? Moppet was given no time to contemplate, the not-so-clumsy crunch of heavy boots on gravel alerting her to the arrival of the 'other' Warden.

"I thought I might find you down here," he murmured, nudging a pile of wet clothing to the side. "Not surprising," he added. "You left quite a trail of bread crumbs."

Moppet gritted her teeth in annoyance. "They're not bread crumbs, you dolt."

There was a slight pause. Standing knee deep in Lake Calenhad, Moppet did not need to turn around to see Alistair's expression. He was probably laughing at her again. Or looking smug.

"You do realise that was a metaphor?" he told her dryly.

"So you know a big word," Moppet snapped, moving stiff-legged into deeper water. "Good for you."

"Yes, thanks." She could _feel _Alistair grinning, completely unperturbed by her hostile tone of voice. "I think I will. I am rather happy to pat myself on the back, cheers." A clink of metal against metal indicated his attempt to fold his arms across his chest, the gesture constricted by his bulky armour; a mish-mash of various items he'd scavenged along the way.

"Anyway…" He paused again…waiting? For what? For her to turn around? Continue walking into the lake until the water was above her head? "I was wondering…" he began, "whether you're…alright."

Moppet's eyes narrowed, but still she refused to turn, instead curling her fingers into the slightly silty water, skin stinging with cold.

"It couldn't have been…" Alistair added, dropping his voice low, "you know…easy, seeing all those elves…"

"They weren't my clan!" Moppet snapped, slapping her hand angrily onto the surface of the water. "Why should I care?"

She expected censure, anger. What she did not expect was a bored sigh from her fellow Warden.

"You know, you're really not all that convincing," he told her matter-of-factly. "All that bluster and shouting that you do. The…" Setting his voice into a higher pitch, he added, "'I don't care! I want to be alone!' attitude." _Clink. _"You're not fooling _anyone_. And before you say 'I don't care' again and remind me what an annoyance I'm making of myself, let me remind _you_ that no matter how many tantrums you throw or how much pouting you do, _nothing_ changes. You can rail and shout and complain all you want and stomp off to bed without dinner. You will still wake up a Grey Warden. You'll still have the Archdemon screaming in your head. And Darkspawn will find you wherever. You. Go..."

"And we will still not have any allies to fight this war…" Moppet muttered so softly that if the wind had not happened to be blowing in his direction, the words would have been lost completely.

Water splashed, the backs of Moppet's thighs felt like ice as waves of glacial lake water told her Alistair had ventured into the lake as well. _Creators…he's persistent! Why couldn't he just leave her be?_

"Maker, this is _freezing!_" he exclaimed. "How can you even…?" He cleared his throat. A pause followed; his rippling shadow across the water indicated he had half-extended a hand towards her. Then the shadow disappeared as he lowered his hand and he sighed.

"You just had to remind me, didn't you?"

Moppet said nothing in response, thinking how much easier it would have been if _all _the Grey Wardens had died at Ostagar. The Darkspawn would have destroyed this blighted country field by field, the General who deserted the King in battle would have been proven false and when the Blight turned to the next country, someone who cared more about these sorts of things might have done something about it. Someone else; some_where_ else; some other problem for another day, another place. It didn't just have to be up to _them._ It was stupid and insane and impractical to expect just _two_ people to defeat an army of _thousands_.

_What kind of idiot would ever believe they could_?

The answer, Moppet reminded herself grimly was standing behind her. She knew without even having to ask him that _that _was exactly what Alistair intended to do; throw himself at the Darkspawn or the Archdemon or whatever it was because he had some idiotically noble compulsion to do so. Not only that, but he would drag their ridiculously under-manned little party with him; the naïve priestess, the drunk dwarf, the crotchety old giant and the witch who should have known better. What Morrigan had to gain from this exercise, Moppet had no idea. As for contemplating what Flemeth might do to their rotting corpses after the Darkspawn had finished with them…?

'_I give you that most precious to me' _the old witch had told them. Well. There would be no place in this world or afterlife where _any_ of them could hide if anything happened to Morrigan…

"Look…" Alistair said while Moppet ticked off each item on her growing list of no-choices in her head, "I realise this task seems a tad…difficult right now, but I think that…"

Moppet slapped her forehead with both palms - like being hit by a wall of ice – "You really are beyond clueless!" she hissed, exasperated.

"I'm not saying that we should all just march up to the Archdemon and tell him politely to please die," Alistair explained. "I'm just…"

"Your cluelessness is bottomless!" Moppet yelled at the sky. "We are all going to die! Horribly! Torn limb from pathetic limb and then used to paint the words '_Clueless Grey Wardens'_ with our blood into this blighted land!"

"Now that's just silly," Alistair waggled a finger at her. "How do you know Darkspawn know how to spell, much less _write_? Where would they get a big enough pen?"

"You're a…a…a…!" She threw her hands into the air. In what way had she angered the gods to deserve the company of this imbecile, she wondered wildly? What had she done? And had she not atoned enough by now? How much more of his…_companionship _did she have to continue to suffer?

"I know, I know, you're about to say adorable, witty, charming," he told her in his infuriatingly good-natured, sing-song voice. "You don't need to remind me."

All she could do was scream…and stamp her foot and pout rather _hard_ at him, and want to simply stalk back to their camp and throw herself into her tent and not speak to any of them. Ever. Again. Alistair on the other hand merely waited until his ears had stopped ringing and the steam issuing from her flared nostrils had abated a little.

"Anyway…" he smiled – smiled! And she wanted to slap him until he was black and blue and _sobbing _like the clueless little boy that he was – "I wanted to say I think you're right."

"That's impossible! I'm never…_what_?" Moppet boggled at him. Alistair's smiling countenance continued without change. He did add a tiny shrug to add variety to the picture.

"Look. I know how things stand," he began. "The Circle of Mages have fallen, Orzammar has been closed to the outside world, the Dalish have moved offshore and any noble who might have considered fighting with us have either been imprisoned or killed in the civil war. Not to mention the bounty on our heads - did I mention Leliana's been tracking an assassin? No? Since Redcliffe apparently. Not a particularly good one either, but there you are, not everyone is as dedicated to their Calling In Life as we are – so adding all of the above together we are pretty much up a lava creek in an icicle boat."

Moppet boggled some more.

"Duncan sent out a call to the Grey Wardens in Orlais," Alistair reminded her. "He wouldn't have done that if he thought the Wardens already in Ferelden were enough. Why they haven't arrived…Well we know Loghain's reach is pretty far and his distrust of Orlesians – Grey Wardens or not – goes pretty deep, but a Grey Warden _ignore _the Blight? They must be waiting, _some where. _They might not be able to fight the horde in Ferelden, but they must know that sooner or later, they _must _fight. You were right. We should…try to find them. So…"

There would be no end to the boggling. Her throat sore from her previous expression of frustration at Alistair, Moppet could only stare at him completely and utterly speechless.

"Um…" his widening grin turned his eyes into half moons on his tanned face. "This is the part where you tell me that we've just wasted precious weeks trying to get those treaties honoured, when we could have used the time instead to find the Orlesians." He added a chuckle; half nervous, slightly self-deprecating and a little bit mocking too. "_Well…_can't say we didn't try, can we?"

-oo-

Loghain stretched creaking legs across what little space was available to stretch them in, shifting his back against the wood. Every few seconds or so, his lips would twitch involuntarily in what might look like a...smile. Except that the only people in the vicinity to judge the accuracy of that description was fast asleep. In the case of the young Mage, it was high time. She'd stayed to monitor the injured Warden long after the Keeper – Zathrian – had finished his own long session of healing. Loghain considered a scolding only briefly. Not fooled in the least by the young Mage's frivolous façade, he'd simply let her judge for herself her own limits.

He'd seen her far too often in battle with the Darkspawn to be so easily taken in - or even care - by her empty-headed utterances and vacuous mooning after various members of their group, so he'd let her stay, somewhat impressed by her efficiency in preparing the healing draughts and poultices prescribed by the Dalish Keeper. In truth, there was little else to do besides except wait for young Theirin to wake and recover his strength. Cullen's blade may have been efficient, but it had been inaccurate, fortuitously for Alistair. A punctured lung, pierced muscles and a large – but not fatal – amount of blood loss were all that resulted from the ridiculous little spat between the hot-headed young Grey Wardens.

Joints protesting as boot heels scraped across the boards, Loghain angled his head, shifting his range of view to include the snoring lump at the end of the lamp-lit space. Calian's half-brother, the unacknowledged bastard – and again Loghain's lips twitched – was already showing signs of the famous Grey Warden ability to recover unusually fast. Even the Elven Keeper had been surprised.

It had been…busy, these last few days, surprisingly. No. Perhaps not too surprising. Loghain told himself he should know better than to be surprised at any of the news being circulated around the country. Indeed, he had had the information first hand from Anora herself…a soft chuckle managing to escape this time. So…there should have been no astonishment in the fact that after being cast off as too old, too past her prime for child-bearing…No sooner were the papers prepared dissolving her marriage to Cailan Theirin, than Anora announce she was in fact _with child…_

_Cailan's child…_should there have been any argument about _that._

_Hah! _He wished Eamon Guerrin mountainous piles of revenge pie…served Deep Roads-stone cold. The Arl of Redcliffe had been opposed to his nephew marrying Anora Mac Tir from the beginning. While Loghain regretted rushing the marriage so soon after Maric's death, he truly believed Anora and Cailan to be a good match. Anora may have been a few years older and at times somewhat…_forceful_ of character, but Loghain had hopes that Cailan's more (outwardly) persuadable personality might soften his daughter a little. Not only that; but marriage to a Fereldan would have saved the country from becoming once more a mere _annexe _to Orlais. It was no _secret _after all; Eamon's enduring affection for their former oppressors. The old curmudgeon had married one of them; a sour-faced, shrill-voiced drab of a woman with more vinegar in her veins than actual blood.

The type of woman Loghain had purposely raised his own daughter _not _to be.

_Hah! So…Eamon…years of nagging your nephew to replace my daughter with a copy of your harpy of a spouse and you've just been roundly proven to have been talking out of your _nether_ regions…_

The tangled heap on the cot stirred, causing Loghain to stifle his snicker of victory and cut short his thoughts. The ruffled head turned towards Loghain; the older Warden raising a finger to his lips then pointing to the Mage sleeping nearby. He hadn't needed to; Alistair's gaze shifted immediately away to rest on Warden Amell, the gormless smile that lit the young Warden's face causing Loghain to roll his eyes.

"Is she alright?" Alistair whispered.

Loghain's eyebrows lifted a fraction. In the same way that he wasn't surprised at Anora's announcement, nor was he astounded in the least that the younger Theirin show more concern for someone other than himself. Eamon Guerrin might think his influence a good thing in his nephew…Loghain was quite thankful the Arl's _neglect_ of the younger Theirin resulted in a better human being all 'round.

The levity Alistair frequently exhibited was purely Theirin; Maric could hardly father _sombre _offspring after all, but the self-effacing, diffident, _repressed _personality of the younger of the two brothers Loghain attributed directly to Arl Eamon's very Orlesian Puritanical tyranny towards illegitimacy (Chantry influence aside, of course).

"How long has she been here?" Alistair once more intruded on Loghain's thoughts.

"Long enough," Loghain grunted softly. "And she won't thank me when she finds I've been keeping you awake."

Wincing slightly, Alistair propped himself up on an elbow. "I doubt it. She likes _you._"

Loghain crossed his arms across his chest, looking down his nose at the younger man. A tendency towards dimwittedness appeared also to be a major Theirin feature. He'd seen it enough in Maric and far too frequently, in Cailan…

"Has it ever occurred to you that you are the one person she has never 'confessed' an admiration for?" Loghain heard himself say, curling his lip at his inability to remain at a distance from _this _Theirin. "Can you imagine _why _that is?" He was quite sure that he had specifically vowed not to get _involved_…

"Because…she thinks I'm an ass?" Alistair said speculatively.

"Actually," Loghain told him. "It is I who thinks you're an ass, though I may be insulting the ass by doing so." _No _involvement. Alistair's existence had been an insult to Rowan's memory. The fact that he was more Maric than Cailan had ever been was little to the point. It wasn't as if he was the lad's Agony Aunt. He had more important things to do.

"Fine…" Alistair lay back down, staring sourly at the roof of the _aravel_. "Everyone thinks I'm an ass. That's just…wonderful."

"I didn't say she…" Loghain stopped himself in time, sitting back and sinking his chin onto his chest. His gaze caught the Mage still asleep and the gaze turned into a glare.

He wished he had not been so distracted by Anora's news that he had agreed to remain at the Dalish camp while the _others _meanwhile went off to fight _werewolves _or some such thing.

_Werewolves…_He wondered whether Duncan would prove true to form and return with some _conscripted _beasts. _Well, if young Cullen hasn't already half-fallen off his Cliff of Insanity already, the presence of some Werewolves might send him tumbling for certain…_

"Couldn't give her the rose…" Alistair sighed regretfully. "Dog ate it."

_Poor dog…_Loghain's mouth twisted. _Actually, the company of some werewolves might be welcome about now._

"Do you think she might like some jewellery? Girls like that sort of thing, right?" Alistair continued to rattle, despite Loghain's warning to him earlier for silence. To be honest, it was quite remarkable that with the amount of jaw-flapping young Theirin was exhibiting; the Mage _hadn't _woken after all…which caused Loghain to view Amell with suspicious keenness.

"What would _you _give her if…Ah, I suppose I shouldn't ask you," Alistair waved a dismissive hand weakly. "I mean you were married right? So I guess you wouldn't…I mean…I wonder if Duncan would know…? He's sort of a man of the world…"

Loghain's suspicion slipped easily back into long-suffering exasperation. Perhaps it was the stuffiness of the _aravel, _the lack of air and the lingering, stinging scent of elfroot in the air…an ache had begun to make itself known in the vicinity of his right temple…

"And you are…you know…_old. _O-older than Duncan anyhow. What are you? About seventy; eighty? _Maker_, do Grey Wardens _get _that old?"

"I don't see how my…" Loghain's teeth began to grind, causing his words to sound oddly truncated, when the Mage across from them appeared to jerk awake, feet clattering to the wooden boards as she uncurled like an angry snake. _And about time too…_

Her attention focussed first on the injured Grey Warden. "You trying to move already?" she demanded. "Do I need to cast a Binding Spell on you?"

Alistair withered under her seething glare; even more than he had under Loghain's annoyed stare; a stare that had once been able to reduce even the most hard-bitten veteran to tears. "Uh…no. No, Warden Amell…"

"Good," Ella growled, narrowing her eyes distrustfully – at both of them. "Because you open up that wound and I'll make you _regret _you were _ever _healed. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Alistair replied meekly, shrinking back under the bedclothes.

The young Mage gave a small, approving nod, her eyes happening to meet Loghain's as she inclined her head. The colour in her cheeks flared deep red before she rose swiftly to her feet. "Good," she added, addressing the canvas above Loghain's head; anything but meet those knowing eyes. "I'm…going to fetch more elfroot. You clearly need more elfroot." Recovering her nerve, she turned a remarkably believable glower on Alistair. "You had better still be in bed when I come back. Or I'll make your face even more mangled than Cullen's. Is _that_ clear?"

"Yes'm."

"Good!"

The hatch of the _aravel _banged furiously in her wake. Loghain sighed, one finger rubbing absentmindedly at his forehead. _I need air…_

…_and another career…_

"Maker, she really hates me." Loghain heard Alistair whine miserably, causing the left side of Loghain's head to mirror the now-steady throbbing of his right. "She really, _really_ hates me."

Loghain rose, looking down on young Theirin in disgust. Alistair had pulled the bedclothes over his head so missed the look on the older Warden's face. _No involvement…_Loghain promised himself. _Dammit, life is far too short enough as it is…_

"I'm doomed…" he heard Alistair whimper, voice muffled slightly by the material.

_Yes. You are…_Loghain thought, wondering how much more _nauseating _Theirin and Amell would get before his rebelling stomach would force him to renege on the promise of _no involvement._ Again. Forestalling any involuntary impulses to provide manly advice, Loghain turned on his heel, kneecaps crunching painfully as he leapt from the _aravel's _steps to the forest floor.

"Ah…Loghain. There you are…"

The _stench _alerted him to Duncan's arrival, long before the Warden Commander's cheerful greeting. Steeling himself, Loghain adjusted his line of sight to include the now-returned Grey Wardens, along with the recovered elves and…_I should really have learned by now to be careful what I wish for…_he thought darkly. For standing – in this case, _hunching _– beside the Warden Commander were a handful of snarling werewolves, eyeing him in a…whether viewing him with suspicion or hunger, Loghain could not quite decide…Either way it was not pleasant, making his skin itch as though every flea from the werewolves beside Duncan had decided to spontaneously relocate to his person.

_I know I shouldn't be…_but he _was_. Anora's announcement, Eamon's comeuppance and young Theirin's persistent inability to see the glaring truth in front of him…None of that had surprised him.

Duncan with _Grey Warden Werewolves…?_

_Maker, I hope to live to see the Grand Cleric's face when we march into Denerim with this lot_…

_-oo-_

Aerydd decided on one, final attack to the stain on the leather. Alistair had suggested spitting on it; a proposal that had provided his ears good reason to bleed. _Ladies _did not spit, owing to the fact that they did not have any saliva or other disgusting, ungenteel bodily fluid to…spit_._ The fact that this was an argument she had had many times with Nan after having numerous spitballs discovered on the ceiling of the study room she shared with Fergus was _completely_ irrelevant. And none of Alistair's business.

But the leather remained patchy regardless of the amount of effort – and tins of polish – she had applied. Worse, the stench of dead, rotting things lingered under the scent of the cleaning wax, causing her to view the pile of armour she had as yet to tackle with a resentful eye. _Is there any point to this? It's all going to get filthy again anyway._

Her disgusted gaze eventually landed on Alistair; who'd _stopped _cleaning his own pile of armour and arms to observe the Warden Commander and another soldier – a King's messenger perhaps? – in deep discussion at the foot of the slope. Annoyed at Alistair's inactivity while she'd been diligently pursuing Darkspawn _dirt, _she balled up her polishing cloth, took careful aim and hurled it at the back of his head.

The cloth bounced off; snatched immediately out of the air by Ashe…whereupon the mabari wrestled it to the ground, ripping it to shreds polish and all.

"Urgh…_Ashe…!_ That's…Any of that give you belly ache and I will have no sympathy." As she dove for the remains of the cloth, Alistair turned – _actually _turned – and told them – _told them! _– to be quiet; Aerydd's offended glare to no avail as the other Warden had returned to his observation of the Commander of the Grey. She butted him with her shoulder, shifting to stand stiffly beside him.

"What's so interesting down there any…" she'd began when Alistair interrupted her.

"Another Grey Warden," he told her. "Not one of ours."

Aerydd shrugged. "Lovely," she stated, crossing her arms. "Nice to know Grey Wardens outside this country are finally taking a bit of an interest in our little Blight."

"_Orlesian,_" Alistair added in a lowered voice.

"What!" Aerydd blurted, her shout causing the two men at the base of the hill to pause their conversation and look towards them. Aerydd immediately hunkered down, dragging Ashe to stand in front of her just in case. The mabari, thinking this was a fine thing, applied his cloth-caked tongue to the side of her face. "I'm…oh for the Maker's…yes, yes I love you too Ashie, now sit down before…" Giving the mabari a hard shove made him settle, sprawling across the grass with his head against Alistair's knee.

Aerydd stared at Alistair's still-intent face. This time she was careful to keep her voice low. "What do you mean 'Orlesian'?" she asked. "Duncan said he'd sent a message to the Val Royeaux Wardens to turn back," she hissed. "He _promised_ in return for Cailan's waiting for reinforcements from Redcliffe! Promised!"

Without turning to face her, Alistair's forehead wrinkled more deeply. "You know, I will never get used to the fact that you call our reigning monarch by his first name. Ever."

"Psht!" Aerydd waved a dismissive hand. "When you've seen a man without his smalls and covered in treacle and chicken feathers, you can pretty much call him anything you like."

At last, Alistair turned to her. Slowly. Millimetre by millimetre. Eyes wide. "You…he…_what_?" he goggled at her.

"Never mind," Aerydd waved her hand at him again. She pointed to the Warden Commander; "Orl…" only to find the senior Warden making his way towards them. Aerydd found a finger under her chin, forcing her jaw closed. Her teeth clicked loudly together and she cast Alistair a dark look.

"Lady Cousland…" Duncan greeted her. Aerydd almost cringed; catching herself in time. It had been a long time since she had been addressed by her old title and it felt strange and disused to her ears. She had ceased to be Cousland some time in the tunnels of the Deep Roads, ceased to be Lady anything when she had encountered her first broodmother and it had wrapped her in its tentacled embrace, like a potential sister…before Ashe had clawed it away. She was only Aerydd now. Just plain Aerydd and even 'just plain Aerydd' had been a bit wobbly at times. Like that time with the werewolf. She had been so close she could see bits of old shredded meat between its fangs and she had felt like…felt like…well, like _dinner, _actually.

A bit like now.

Aerydd cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. "Yes. Warden Commander." _Because a title deserved a title in return, did it not?_

The ghost of a smile flickered briefly around Duncan's mouth before vanishing completely.

"I have word of your brother," Duncan told her.

"My…" She felt suddenly very light-headed; strong fingers curling around her upper arm. _Alistair? Ashe? _Mabari don't have fingers, she reminded herself, her mind skipping from the pile of armour still waiting to be cleaned behind them to the Warden Commander standing patiently before them to oddly enough, the way the afternoon light sparkled on the surface of the waters of Lake Calenhad, before skittering away to find another subject.

"What kind of word?" Alistair asked when too much silence passed between them.

Duncan gave a non-committal shrug; a slight twitch of one shoulder. "Something of a mixed bag, I'm afraid," he told them both.

Alistair nodded curtly, glancing sideways at Aerydd. The lack of colour in her complexion was alarming to say the least. She was not chatty at the best of times, except with her mabari Ashe, but the deathly silence was eerie and he had to force himself from raising a hand to her face to check if she was still breathing.

"Mixed how?" In the mean time he would have to keep speaking for her.

"I have just received news that a contingent of Grey Wardens has been detained in Denerim," Duncan told them both grimly.

"Orlesian Grey Wardens?" Alistair rumbled.

"Not only Orlesian," Duncan turned to Alistair with a frown. "From the Free Marches and Rivain as well as others. Grey Wardens fight the Blight regardless of origin," he reminded them both.

"So why have they been detained?" Alistair persisted. There was something that Duncan was not telling them, whether out of a desire to draw this particular conversation out for dramatic effect, or simply giving himself time to phrase the information carefully, Alistair did not know. Right now, the too-still Warden beside him was giving him the colly-wobbles and the sooner he could squeeze the information out of Duncan, the sooner they could revive Aerydd or at the very least stop her from holding her breath…because he was sure that was what she was doing.

The Warden Commander nodded, pulling absently at an earlobe. "Detained," he admitted, "because there were _some _Orlesians amongst their number. They have been taken to Denerim for questioning, including the Warden Commander from Jader…"

"Riordan?" Alistair interrupted. "He was at my Joining as I recall, but he's not…"

"Orlesian yes, I think we have discussed that aspect quite enough," Duncan chided the younger Warden. "Inconvenient as this development is," he turned his attention back to Aerydd, "I cannot help but wonder at the timing, with the horde being spotted so close to capital."

"Surely the King doesn't think the Orlesians _lured _the horde there…!" Alistair shot another look at Aerydd. _Wake up! _"That would be nonsensical!"

"As I am not privy to the decisions being made in the capital at present," Duncan told them in a hard voice, "I refuse to speculate. Lady Cousland...were you aware that the Grey Wardens were in communication with the Teyrn of Highever?"

Aerydd blinked furiously, as though she had something needing to be dislodged urgently from her eyes. "The Teyrn…" she breathed barely audible. "The Teyrn is dead."

"I mean of course, Teryn _Fergus _Cousland."

"Fff…Fer…"

"Fergus, yes," Duncan replied, turning uncharacteristically impatient. "The Grey Wardens were found in the Teyrn's company…in Highever barely two weeks ago. He, along with the Wardens there have all been arrested on suspicion of treason."

Two heartbeats passed before the paleness of Aerydd's skin suffused suddenly with colour. Her blue eyes flashed in outrage. Her jaw tightened and the sound of teeth grinding painfully together could be heard above the sigh of the wind and Ashe scratching himself nearby. Then…

"_Treason?_" she screeched, setting birds into flight from a neighbouring tree. "I'll give Cailan _treason…! _Accuse my brother of acting against the throne will he? If he is, then send a messenger this minute! Someone had better warn His empty-headed Majesty treason from one of the most honourable nobles in the land would be the least of his worries!" She spun on Alistair. "Fetch me the largest barrel of treacle you can find and a pen of chickens! I'll give _Cailan _Archdemons…"

"Lady Cousland, I really…" Duncan began, to find Aerydd pale as a ghost once more. When she began to sway, he put out his hand cautiously.

"Hang on a...My…my brother's a…my brother's a…wait. My brother's a…live? Live? Li…" Seizing handfuls of Duncan's tabard in her fists, Aerydd leant in close to the Warden Commander. Then just as abruptly, all strength left her, her arms fell to her sides and she toppled backwards…both men having failed to catch her, the task of cushioning her fall left to the mabari.

-oo-


	14. Distraction

-oo-

**Chapter 14 – Distraction**

_Thud._

_Shuffle, shuffle._

_Thud._

_Shuffle, snuffle…snerk…grunt._

_THUD._

Grasping the handle of her double-headed axe, Calea swung…the whisper-thin edge of the blade stopping short of the few hairs poking out from Oghren's right beard braid. The red-haired ex-warrior was unperturbed by how close he'd come to a quick separation from his head, or at the very least…a beard trim. He chuckled, showing perfectly white, straight teeth under his bushy moustache. Like a bronto.

"Eh, heh, heh…So, uh…You and the human warrior eh?"

Calea's eyes narrowed. "'Eh' what?"

"You know what I mean…"

Calea sighed. Yes. She knew _exactly _what he meant. Crossing her ankles she upended her axe and began bouncing the handle on the mossy ground – _thud - _catching it midair then bouncing it again. _Thud. _

"Nah…" she told him with a slight hitch to her shoulder. "Not really."

"Can't reach eh?" Oghren's chuckle deepened. "Do ya want me to fetch yer a ladder?"

_Sigh._ "Height's not an issue Exile." Calea shot a sideways look at the dwarf, to see what kind of effect calling the red-haired warrior 'Exile' would have. Apparently, none at all if the wide grin was any indication.

"Ah," Oghren cast her a wink. "It's the other thing. Always comes down to that. Humans and Dwarves…don't measure up to us, do they?"

Calea pondered the warrior's words carefully; or at the least, pretended to. "Don't know," she said finally. "Haven't had a chance to get out my measuring tape. Think I left it in the Deep Roads that one time I got exiled. Silly me."

"Yeah," Oghren nodded sagely. "You and me. We exiles gotta stick together."

Calea raised her other eyebrow; the unimpressed one. "And this has to do with what we were talking about…how?"

"Eh?" Oghren squinted. "Why? What were you talking about?"

"Not fornicating with Alistair."

"Were you?" Oghren's moustache turned downwards, indicating a frown of some kind. "I think I might have missed that bit. Wanna run that by me again?" he asked. "With diagrams?"

"How about we don't?" Calea suggested, detecting out of the corner of her eye, movement in the undergrowth nearby. Alistair had volunteered to scout ahead; and Leliana had elected to accompany him, much to the Warden's discomfort. Watching a man of Alistair's size attempting to scurry through prickly thicket in heavy armour while being pursued by a red-haired, two-legged terrier had been highly amusing. Calea vowed to do it again some time. _Ancestors know I could do with a laugh or two…_

Unfortunately it meant being left behind with the _others…_

"Yeah well, seems to me it might do the little pike twirler some good…"

"'Pike twirler'?"

"…ironing out his…eh, heh…_creases…_"

"Pi…" Calea found herself peering through the greenery. Purely involuntarily. Because she wasn't thinking of Alistair's…_creases…_or…What did Oghren just say? _Pike?_

_Ancestor's milk buds…I think I'm just…_"Wait," she held up a hand. "When you say 'pike' are you referring to the fish or the rather impressively long spiked weapon?" _For purely contextual reasons of course._

"Fish?" Oghren's eyebrows beetled across his forehead in thought. "Why would he be practising with a fish?"

"He needs to _practice?_" Calea blurted before her commonsense could stop her. And then she had to deal with the _vision _her mind conjured for her perturbation. _Stone cursed…! What am I, twelve? And by the way, why am I even speaking to this peon?_

"Said he needed to extend his repper-twah…whatever that is," Oghren informed her with a sniff, which provoked a completely new set of colourful visions in Calea's head. "So are the two of you waxing each other's backs or not?" he demanded.

"I think his back might be hairless," Calea murmured, distracted. "Quite frankly, I don't think he has the time and…Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

"Bored?"

"Yeah. That'll be it."

The underbrush rustled again. Calea rose to her feet, but it was only a Blight rabbit. The beastie headed straight to Oghren's boots to gnaw at them rather aggressively, before the dwarf reached down, grabbed the thing and tossed it back into the shrubbery. Calea merely raised an eyebrow at him, surprised that Oghren hadn't put the poor tainted thing out of its misery. It was certainly what she would have done.

"So. Are you?" he asked unexpectedly…though not unexpectedly persistent.

"Why this sudden interest in my sex life, Exile?" Calea frowned. "Don't you have things to kill or decapitate? Do I have to find Darkspawn for you again? Don't make me, because I will…"

"Eh…" Oghren thumbed at his nose in the direction the other Warden and priestess had gone. "Have a bet on…"

Calea pinched the bridge of her nose. "If you're going to tell me you're going to lose your shirt Oghren…"

"I have a spare…"

"I don't want you frightening little children wherever we go, Exile," Calea's frown deepened. "But for the record, no. Not greasing, un-creasing or waxing Alistair's _anything_. He's just too…" _Young…_Calea's brain supplied for her when her store of words failed her. _He's too young. _How old was the kid anyway? Nineteen? Twenty? That made at least a five year gap between them. And five years was a _lot…That's half a decade…_Even Bhelen was older but then, Calea mused, her younger brother Bhelen had been _spawned _old.

_The demon child…_

When the greenery rustled again, both dwarves jumped.

"Right. "Alistair emerged – at last! - gloved hands pressed together busily. He paused at Calea's disgruntled expression, sliding a cautious look at Oghren and not liking the conclusion his logic forced him to link with the dwarf's smirk. "We uh…"

He was saved from continuing by the appearance of Leliana, looking out of breath and pink-cheeked. "Did you not hear me when I said 'slow down', Alistair?"

"Um…" Alistair tossed a look over his shoulder. "There was a bear. It was chasing me," he explained, rather unconvincingly.

"I saw no bear!" Leliana shook her head. There were twigs and leaves in her braids; evidence of her flight through the forest trying to keep up with the Grey Warden. Calea couldn't help the hint of a smile. Between his long legs and the Grey Warden stamina, there were few that could keep up with Alistair - except perhaps Calew – especially when he was determined to outrun his pursuer.

Ignoring Leliana's berating voice, Calea hung her axe on her belt and stood again. "So are we good to go?" she asked, thinking that the sooner their party got this little _quest _for the Dalish over and done with, the better. She hated Darkspawn. _Hated _them. Hated fighting them, hated their smell, their eerie cacophonous grunting. She hated how they got under skin, like some kind of crawling, flesh-devouring disease…Hated how despite how much she hated them, how _badly _she needed to be near them and hating how she had to admit that…She'd rather go somewhere warm and sunny where the worst thing she had to worry about was a bit of sunburn, but the dreams were getting worse. The _presence _of the Archdemon in her head was becoming more frequent.

She was looking forward to hacking that thing to _bits_ and then setting the whole lot on fire with _acid, _but…one might mistakenly think - from the delays they kept encountering; at needing to run everyone's errand and quest in this country - that there _wasn't_ an entire horde of Darkspawn ravaging across the land…eating, biting, breaking and blighting everything in sight.

From the look on Alistair's face, Calea mused unhappily, their little trip into the forest to investigate Darkspawn on behalf of the Dalish was about to turn into _another_ delay.

"I, uh…I think you had better see this…" Alistair told her grimly.

_Yup. Delay…_

Managing to leave Leliana behind this time, Alistair led the two dwarves back the way he had come. The ground grew rockier, the greenery more sparse. Somewhere beyond the trees there was a stream. Calea could hear the muted hiss of running water growing fainter with every step. She'd begun to think that the lack of vegetation might be due to some kind of disease when the _smell _hit her. So familiar. Too familiar.

Darkspawn.

"Here…" Alistair ducked through a tangled, thorny wall; branches snapped and crushed by something or some_things _passing through. Possibly just Alistair and Leliana or…the usual.

There was an opening to a cave and the remains of some kind of ancient structure. On closer inspection, it appeared the entry to the cave might have once been hung with doors, now crumbled to gravel. And just a little beyond, lying in a twisted heap was a body. Calea thought at first that it might be a human child, until Alistair bent over the poor thing and she realised that the corpse must be one of the hunters the Dalish were looking for.

"She's tainted, Oghren…careful," Alistair warned hastily, holding up a hand when the red-haired dwarf approached.

Calea knelt opposite Alistair. "Ancestor's nug lumps…" she cursed under her breath. _How many times do I have to look at dead children…?_ "The Darkspawn didn't take her…" She looked up at Alistair. "Did you…?"

"No, I found her like this, believe it or not," Alistair told her. "Found a couple of genlocks further in, but that was all…Along with some kind of mirror."

Calea looked up sharply. "Mirror? You stopped in the middle of a Darkspawn fight to check your hair or something? I knew you had a slight obsession with that nug bum you call a _style, _but I didn't think you were _that_ vain."

"I'd laugh, except that I don't think it would be appropriate, given the circumstances…" Alistair told her sternly.

Calea sighed. _Fine. _"So what about this mirror?" she asked tiredly.

"It was tainted. Well, from what I could gather of its remains it was tainted. It's just a frame and a bit of shiny glass now." Alistair echoed Calea's sigh. "Just a guess, but I think those two clan members the Keeper's been looking for might have gotten into contact with it. Maker knows how long the Darkspawn have been here, but this one…" He indicated the young woman between them. "Didn't stand a chance. As for the other, who knows? The odds of him or her escaping without being just as tainted are a bit slim I would say."

Calea nodded. She knew they should take the girl back to the Dalish, but could they risk contaminating the other elves with Darkspawn taint? On the other hand, if they returned with no proof they'd found at least one of the hunters, the Keeper might not be as keen to honour that treaty…

_Ah sod it! _

"We'll take her back to the Dalish," Calea suggested grimly. "If we keep her outside the camp and bring the Keeper to her. Or…I don't know…" Her hands knotted into tight fists at her side, having a sudden urge to punch something very, very hard.

Alistair shot her a sharp, concerned look. "You alright?" he asked softly.

"No," Calea snapped. "I'm not alright. Take a look at her and tell me whether I'm supposed to be alright over something like this. This is…this is…" _A sodding waste…_All_ of it…_"Ah, let's just get this over with."

She rose to her feet quickly, leaving Alistair to gather the young hunter in his arms. She noted vaguely how gently he did so, making sure the elf's arms were crossed securely across her chest and that nothing was left behind. Calea wasn't surprised. It was Alistair all over…needing to stifle the sigh that inevitably arose when she thought about Arl Teagan's…_proposition._

Right now, it wasn't important. What was important was ending all of…_this_.

"Pretty thing ain't she?" Oghren murmured at her side as Alistair led them from the cave. "For a tree hugger, that is."

Calea scowled at Alistair's backside, because that was the closest target. Tree hugger, stone dweller, surfacer, human…what did it matter? The Darkspawn certainly didn't care…

"Yeah…" Alistair turned briefly at the cave exit. "I wonder where this silver hair comes from?" he asked. "None of the Dalish at the camp had this colour."

"Does it matter?" Calea growled. "I'm done with the Dalish. Let's just go."

"Without the treaty?" Alistair asked quietly, that look of concern back again. As he showed no immediate attempt to continue moving, Calea brushed past him, intending to take over leading them out of this place.

"_With_ of course!" she snapped at the both of them.

After she'd gone a few paces, Alistair turned to Oghren. "Alright," he said. "Who put grumpy juice on her morning porridge again?"

"Weren't me," Oghren stumped alongside the tall Warden. "Personally, I think she's just mad she ain't getting near yer _pike…_"

-oo

The Grey Wardens were mustering. Gathering their allies – courtesy of those ancient treaties – and preparing to meet the horde. In silent agreement, both Aerydd and Alistair stayed clear of the new Wardens. It was easy enough; the newcomers preferred to keep to their own 'kind'. Aerydd thought she heard some Antivan amongst the Orlesian in the snatches of conversation whenever she happened to pass by their exclusive little enclave, but did not feel tempted to show off her mastery of either language. Considering her older brother's current predicament, she did not feel inclined to have anything to do with any thing that was not _Fereldan_.

Not that she _believed _Fergus was guilty. Far from it.

She simply wanted to show how _Fereldan _a Cousland _was_. Is. At this very moment. And had been, always.

Every so often the _idea_ that Fergus was alive somewhere, even if it was languishing in a filthy, decrepit cell in the bowels of Fort Drakon would spark in her head; the ensuing torrent of emotion making her feel dizzy with apprehension, fear…anger. She needed to see him. Needed to see for herself that he was still alive and whole and…_I need to get to him. Somehow. _But Duncan had already quashed that idea; squashed it flat, rolled it out parchment thin and then stomped over it with muddy boots. While he hadn't chosen to avoid her and her persistent requests for a leave of absence to travel to Denerim, he did make it quite clear – suddenly – that the Archdemon and the horde were their priority now, not some former noblewoman's quest to save her brother.

After the past few months of doing nothing _else _but non-Grey Warden tasks, this was a bitter potion to swallow. After all, it was perfectly fine to solve the little problem at the Mage's Tower with their Blood Mage uprising and demon infestation. Not an inconvenience _at all_ to rid the Arl of Redcliffe of their plague of undead. And it was quite alright to spend weeks underground trying to locate a runaway Paragon, then play fetch with a band of marauding werewolves in the Brecilian forest…Going to the aid of an important and powerful Teyrn – second only to the King himself – no…why in the _Fade _would they do that?

_Apart from the substantial number of troops and logistics a man as powerful and resourceful as Fergus might be able to offer? _

"Oh I could kick Cailan right now…!"

"Are you still on that?"

Aerydd shot Alistair a look blacker than a Deep Roads tar pit. Now that the Grey Wardens were back to thinking – and doing something – about the Blight, her fellow junior Grey Warden was happy. Happier than she'd seen him in a long time and it was truly irritating.

"I could kick you instead," she suggested.

Alistair gave her a look of reproach. "You know you're already in enough trouble for threatening Duncan with your mabari. You don't think exercising a little restraint might be in order?"

"Fine." Aerydd turned her back on him. "Go back to being Duncan's little pet."

There was a choking sound behind her. Aerydd could not tell whether it was Alistair making the noise or her mabari Ashe. She didn't care, heading in the general direction of the two dwarven merchants that insisted on trailing the Grey Warden party wherever they went. Ashe had formed a fondness for the younger of the two dwarves and it seemed natural to head towards them.

"Look," Alistair's voice followed her and she quickened her pace. "I know you're worried about your brother…"

"You have no idea what my thoughts are regarding my brother, Alistair," she threw over her shoulder. "As I haven't chosen to share them with you!"

"I didn't say I knew exactly what you're thinking," he countered. "I just said…For the love of the Maker woman, will you please slow down!"

Alistair made a grab for her arm. Aerydd kept walking, or at least attempted to walk while being restrained by an individual half a head taller and well over a third more of her weight. And that was without the heavy plate he wore these days. It…annoyed her that bit by bit her fellow Grey Warden was coming to resemble his half brother more. Alistair was taller and browner and more gaunt; the result of the Taint and travelling lean but she still didn't need to be reminded of King Cailan every day…and how he had reneged on his promises to her.

"Duncan's concentrating on the Blight!" Alistair growled. "As it should be! If we don't stop the Archdemon, no one is safe! Not even your brother!"

At her other side, Ashe ducked under her hand, nosing her fingers with a gritty muzzle. Aerydd paused mid-struggle at his concerned whine, transferring her hand to the top of his head and knotty, scarred ears.

"I know that," Aerydd hissed angrily. "Do you think I don't know that?" She gave one final tug to her arm, finding it released easily. "My brother is _loyal. _He has troops. Highever is not without its resources. Resources the Grey Wardens can use to fight the Blight…And this has Rendon Howe all over it. I know it. Cailan knows it…" She gave a restless shake to her head. "And what has he done? After the promises he made to me; to our House? _Nothing_. Loyalty…" her voice turned bitter, "…returned with neglect.

"And…after the endless to-ing and fro-ing running errands for every man and his mabari in this country, Duncan decides _now _he can't do one more?"

"Because of course every Grey Warden knows," Alistair said sourly, "how the Archdemon _hasn't _been plaguing our dreams lately."

"We saw the Archdemon in the Deep Roads…" Aerydd shot back. "We didn't exactly throw ourselves at it there and then…and don't even _think _about telling me how that was different!" she added in warning; the sound of Alistair's jaw snapping shut proving how predictable her fellow Warden was. The two of them remained few moments more, exchanging glares of varying intensity before Ashe gave a single, commanding bark to cease their standoff.

Folding his arms across his chest, Alistair took a half-step backwards. "So," he began. "What do you intend to do? Desert?"

Ramming her fists onto her hips, Aerydd leaned her face in close to his. "_Desertion's _an ugly word, Warden."

"So is pox," Alistair countered easily. "And boil, while we're at it. Also poop, scum and cheese-crisis."

Aerydd's eyes narrowed further into two thin lines on either side of her nose. "Cheese. And. Crisis are two words," she gritted.

"Not when you're me," Alistair told her infuriatingly calm. "And…do you feel better?"

"I haven't killed someone yet," she growled. "Ask me after I've disembowled Rendon Howe with the blunt end of a pitchfork and _then_ we'll see whether I feel any better."

Alistair appeared to ponder her words carefully, mulling over each one in his head for feel and meaning. "You know," he continued rather ponderously, the 'oh' of 'know' dragging far too long to sit comfortably on Aerydd's nerves. "I always thought you noble folk would just simply hire someone to do all of that…you know…_eliminating_ each other…"

Aerydd's eyes sprang open. Her lips curled in disgust. "You speak of hiring an assassin?" she asked. "I'm a _Cousland_. The hiring of such persons would be crass, craven and cowardly in our view."

"Oh…simply 'not done'?" Alistair enquired mildly. "Nice alliteration by the way."

"Shutup Theirin."

"Ooh, that was a low blow."

Aerydd shoved her face so close to his this time, she could count his eyelashes; ridiculously long, girlish eyelashes that were completely wasted on a man. _The number of noblewomen who would give their entire jewellery collections for those…_"Hmph," she snorted. "Believe me Theirin, if I were to administer a _low _blow you would feel it."

"And no doubt not be able to walk for several days."

"Weeks."

"Oh, you think you're so good."

"Feel like testing that out?"

"_Listen_," Alistair leant backwards, attempting to put some kind of decent space between them. Aerydd might be his fellow Warden. She might be his Sister in Arms. They'd fought and bled together…but she was still a _girl_ and there were _rules _about that sort of thing; about men and women and proper conduct and behaviour between the two. Not that Aerydd was some rare and gentle flower to be protected and cultivated with utmost care. Give the girl a sharp sword, point her towards something to kill, don't say the 'H'-word around her and she was…well she wasn't happy, but when was she ever happy? Apart from the times she was mucking about with the four-legged drool dispenser she called a 'mabari', that was.

Most of the time, she was either bored, irritable, angry or angsty.

_How did a person _live_ like that, honestly?_

Well…to be fair, the little voice at the back of Alistair's head reminded him in a most timely way…_he _hadn't had his entire family slaughtered by a trusted friend of the family's, conscripted at his dying father's side, made to abandon his mother to the Maker knew what fate and then after being made to believe his brother dead to find said brother arrested on made up charges of treason and facing execution…_On second thoughts_…

"I could hire the assassin for you," he suggested. "Seeing as I'm not – conveniently - a crass, craven, cowardly Cousland."

"I think you had better re-word that particular _statement_…"

Warned by the dangerous flash in her eye, Alistair forced his treacherously sluggish brain to think faster.

"I wasn't suggesting…" he sputtered as quickly as he could. "Surely you don't think I mean…Because _I _happen to be a crass, craven, cowardly Theirin!" he announced.

"Better."

Alistair wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Not surprisingly it came away slightly damp.

"So…" he began tentatively once more. "What do you intend to do? You can't leave the Grey Wardens…You won't leave the Grey Wardens," he added, with his usual, odd and an unexpected flash of insight. "You have too much honour for that. Your oath to the Order of the Grey is unbreakable."

Aerydd appeared to deflate. Her shoulders slumped and her head bowed, making her look – not defeated, _never _defeated but – smaller, more concentrated, as though drawing every jot of hate and bitterness and feeling of betrayal within herself to store away for another day.

"I don't know," she said quietly. When she raised her head, her eyes were unfocussed, her mind clearly occupied with deeper, darker thoughts.

"Continue hoping the Archdemon develops a taste for blond men in aurum heavy plate…?"

-oo-

Alistair scuffed his foot idly at the remains of someone else's meal. Maker knew how long ago it had been left and by whom…the grim traces of mould indicating even rot had abandoned it as a lost cause. Simply for nostalgia's sake he rose, taking yet another turn about the filthy cell, still careful where he placed his bare feet. His too-short journey brought him once more to the pale heap curled in the corner, trying not to think how pathetically small his fellow Warden appeared without her usual accoutrements of sharpened implements, poison bottles and pouches of mysterious ingredients best left unquestioned.

They'd even taken away her collection of odd 'jewellery'; the carved ironwood mouse and her beloved fish hook and the various rings and metal ropes that normally adorned her head and arms. The rodent skulls they'd smashed with glee; taking too much enjoyment out of hurling the broken remains at her.

All she'd been left with were her tattoos; her beautiful and thoughtful mementos of where she had been and whom she had met defaced with deep purple bruises. And yet, for everything their jailors had taken away from her…some ripped by force from her body, nothing seemed to have crushed her spirit more than what she had seen at the Alienage.

And he didn't know what to do about that.

Alistair had tried to comfort her, after the two of them had been stripped of their armour and possessions and thrown into this cell to ponder their loyalty to the Regent and Ferelden. She had flinched, whimpering as though he had struck her, even though she hadn't uttered a single sound when the guards had battered her with her own weapons.

Her light had been dimmed long before they had attempted to rescue the Queen from the Arl of Denerim's residence at the Alienage, when Talion realised…discovered that her father was no longer there…taken away to Maker knew where by slavers. Alistair had expected her to be angry or upset, unleashing a whirlwind of destruction on the Tevinter mercenaries and slavers. Not turn silent and…_lost_.

All Alistair seemed to be able to do was to sit as close as she would allow; he'd already passed on the musty, tattered prison smock from his own back in an attempt to keep her warm at least. What else could he do?

"Talion…"

The sound of doors booming in the distance reached him. Alistair peered into the greasy gloom, unable to see any further than a few metres away. _More prisoners for Loghain's torture racks…_he thought, before returning to the slender elf beside him.

"Listen," he began tentatively, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "I know that…"

"I would hate to disturb this very romantic interlude, my dear Wardens, but alas…freedom must sing its siren song…"

"_Zevran!"_ Alistair leapt to his feet, practically throwing himself at the bars. "Am I glad to see…wait…This isn't…" His eyes slid to the assassin's companion, at this point in time pulling back the hood of her Chantry robes to reveal a head of deep red and concerned blue eyes. The smear of blood across one of Leliana's cheeks told Alistair all he needed to know. "Maker," he began. "How many of Loghain's soldiers are going to be pursuing us after this?"

"None, of course," Leliana informed him, nimble fingers working at the heavy padlock on their cell door. "We have been very thorough."

"Just as your jailers have been to you, Warden," Zevran added, throwing Alistair a long, critical look. "It appears they have been particularly attentive to your face, more's the pity…"

Alistair's hand rose automatically to the right side of his face. "Well, this is…Never mind…" _Proof that I've failed to protect my fellow Warden…_he'd been about to say. The first and only time he'd attempted to halt the abuses the Fort's guards had begun to inflict on Talion, they'd struck him hard with something large and metallic. The last memory he'd had was of a sickening, crunching sound. When he'd awoken, he'd been unable to feel that side of his face and Talion…He didn't want to think about that.

The cell door swung open and both Zevran and Leliana rushed inside. Zevran hadn't arrived empty handed, Alistair saw; armed with armful of leather and metal that he passed to Leliana. A spare set of Chantry robes was handed to Alistair which the Grey Warden donned quickly and silently, his good eye kept trained as much as possible on Talion. She was resisting Leliana's attempts to dress her, wrapping her arms around her head while the Bard continued – unsuccessfully – to return some of her clothing to her.

After a few moments more struggling and failing, Leliana threw a pleading look towards the two men. In quick strides, Alistair was kneeling before the elf, shaking her shoulder gently.

"Talion…" he began earnestly. "I swear on my life as a Grey Warden…we _will _find your father…"

"No. I will stay here."

"And would your father be happy knowing you allowed the fates to defeat you, little Warden?"

Talion's head snapped up at Zevran's voice; as did Alistair's. The Grey Warden frowned, but Zevran continued to berate the young elf.

"Would he be happy to see you defeated thus?" he added. "To have willingly given your life to the Grey Wardens only to see it squandered in a prison cell instead of fighting the Darkspawn as expected of your duty? Tsk, tsk…He would be most disappointed, no?"

Alistair rose. He began to advance on the assassin angrily, only to find Leliana's hand on his arm, stopping him. She gave a small shake of her head, tossing a pointed look at Talion. The young elf was unfolding like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon; slow and painstakingly deliberate. Her head bowed.

"I'm sorry Ser Zevran," she apologised in a voice heartbreakingly small and childlike. "I will try better."

Zevran gave a short nod. "I should hope so, my Warden," he told her. "Now, be a good girl and get dressed."

"Yes Ser."

To Alistair's chagrin, Talion began pulling on her leathers and straps - pieces their rescuers found that looked like it might belong to the elven Warden - though somewhat mechanically. When he chanced to look back at the assassin he was shocked to find such rage in the man's face that Alistair almost flinched. Knowing the Grey Warden was observing him, Zevran turned his gaze on him, a clear challenge in his golden eyes.

"It is best we do not linger here," Leliana murmured behind them, throwing the prison clothing around Talion's shoulders like a shawl.

"Yes," Zevran drawled, not breaking eye-contact with Alistair. "Just in case your lovely Queen decides to alert her father and his most tenacious Commander…_again._"

-oo-


	15. Devil You Know

A/N: I swear these chapters are getting longer and longer…Anyhoo, it's past time I thanked you all for sticking with this rather convoluted collection of stories. Especially to those who have taken the time to review; you know how appreciated you all are. And thank you to those following, lurking or just passing through.

-oo-

**Chapter 15 – Devil You Know**

Something wasn't right. Alistair glanced at the woman beside him, seeming to notice for the first time how tired she looked; how unnaturally bright her eyes appeared, shielded as they were by a single pale hand above her brow…Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze locked with the apostate's. A single eyebrow cocked mockingly at him stripped the last of his already shredded optimism away.

She'd tried to hide the creep from him; from all of them, but he was a _Grey Warden. _He could feel the taint everywhere. In the soil at their feet, the water they drank, the sickened and rotting fauna and flora that once made this country a rich hunting ground for the Orlesians. A country that was now dying from the Blight.

Just like Leliana.

"Why do you look at me that way, Alistair?" Her soft voice held an edge of pain.

Alistair found himself unable to meet her eyes. Staring straight ahead, he swallowed the words of distress and worry that arose at first.

"You…never said anything," he managed eventually.

"Why?" Leliana countered. She stumbled; Alistair reached out instinctively to steady her. She felt…small and enfeebled, a rush of protectiveness causing him to maintain his hold on her arm. He'd always thought her…odd. Her belief that the Maker Himself had come to her in a vision - instructing her to aid the Grey Wardens - had left him wondering whether she would have been better off in a Chantry Hospice for touched individuals, rather than travelling across Ferelden in search of allies. And she was a walking contradiction; her gentle demeanour at odds with her ability to fight dirty; her very devotion to the Maker and his Prophet a sharp contrast to the violent way she despatched Darkspawn.

"If it is the Maker's will Alistair," Leliana's voice jogged him out of his fuzzy thoughts, "I will accept my fate without fear or resentment."

"And if it's the 'Maker's will' that Ferelden be destroyed by the Blight?" he asked, feeling spiteful for doing so.

Leliana smiled. "I have faith," she told him confidently. "In you and your fellow Grey Warden."

Alistair rolled his eyes. _Fellow Grey Warden…?_ _Hardly!_ There was nothing 'fellow' about the Dalish elf. Rude yes. Arrogant, selfish, mean-spirited, insulting…Loghain didn't need to spread lies about the Order. All he had to do was point towards Moppet Mahariel and the rest of the world would instantly hate every Griffon-bearing individual in Thedas. And yet…Leliana stumbled again. This time Alistair called the party to a halt, slipping the shield from his shoulder to the ground so the young Chantry Sister could sit on it, instead of the damp ground.

Inevitably, Moppet stalked towards them, demanding to know why they had stopped.

"In the middle of nowhere…" Moppet frowned at Leliana as she spoke. "If you wish to set up camp _now, _it should be higher ground…You _Shems _are clueless…! If we are…"

"It's just for a short while…" Alistair interrupted impatiently, when a faint whistling noise preceded something sharp grazing the lobe of his ear. The object thudded into the ground between himself and Leliana, precious moments passing while his brain identified the object as an arrow. They were under attack.

He rose and spun, drawing his sword. Moppet was faster, retrieving arrows from the quiver at her back and loosing them with eye-watering speed. Beside them Morrigan transformed into a bear; the blue glow of her magic marking her as she charged into the undergrowth, the hulking qunari warrior and Orzammar dwarf close behind. Several gouts of flame followed…then screams as their victims fell further foul of magic and sword.

_Bandits…? _Three armed men exploded seemingly from the trees, dropping from hiding spots in the boughs. Sluggish to respond, Leliana barely had time to raise her arm before Alistair snatched his shield from the ground and slammed it - sharpened-edge-first - into the bandit's unprotected neck. Using the momentum from his charge, he whirled, bringing his sword up just in time to prevent another bandit from overwhelming Leliana. His shield took the next blow; he drove his sword forward. Sparks flew as the metal of Alistair's blade screeched along the length of the bandit's weapon. His pauldron took the brunt of the attack as he'd planned, the man's underarm left exposed for scant seconds…and then there was no arm but a shrill cry and a spurt of deep red. Kicking the bandit's feet from beneath him, the Grey Warden once more used the edge of his shield to separate head from body.

And then it was over.

Spattered with blood, Moppet swivelled angrily from side to side, her silver eyed gaze darting into the surrounding forest for more enemies.

"An ambush!" she spat. "As if we had _any_thing to steal!"

Beside Alistair, Leliana frowned. "These were no mere bandits…" she began as Morrigan and the others returned; the witch still in bear form. Her outline shimmered; her transformation paused as she neared one of their attackers. With a menacing growl, she pounced, claws descending upon the man's neck. Leliana rushed forward.

"Wait!" she cried. "This one lives still!"

"Then despatch the creature and be done with it!" Moppet commanded. "It would be more than it deserves!"

"No, wait!" Shoving Morrigan's bear muzzle aside caused the witch to growl anew. Morrigan completed her transformation back to human form, her expression even more dangerous than her ursine version.

"As I have said," Leliana repeated. "These are no ordinary rogues, preying on the lowly traveller. Did you not notice the way they fought? These are professionals. Trained to fight."

"Not very well, it seems," Sten rumbled, wiping his blade with a glove pilfered from one of the deceased. "If the ease of their defeat is anything to judge by."

"Well-trained or not…" Alistair mused, placing himself beside Leliana. "They were waiting for us. This was an ambush."

Oghren shoved the handle of his axe into the ground. He spat to the side and let fly a lengthy, scornful belch. "Who cares?" he asked no one in particular. "They're dead. N' this one'll join 'em soon enough…"

"_Exactly!_" Moppet agreed heartily. With dagger raised, the elf advanced…bouncing off Alistair's shield that was one moment at the Warden's side, the next moment _there._ Without bothering to check whether the irate Dalish was alright, Alistair turned to Leliana. He gave the unconscious man – a blonde haired elf – a keen look, then addressed Leliana.

"You think this might be the assassin that's been tracking us?" he enquired.

"Then we should kill him now!" Moppet sprung to her feet. "Why delay the inevitable?"

Ignoring his fellow Warden, Alistair continued. "Leliana?"

The red-haired Sister nodded. "We might be able to glean information from him," she suggested.

"Your traitorous _shemlen _general sent him against us!" Moppet growled impatiently. "What more do we need to know?"

"True…" Morrigan's calmer voice intervened. "If these are indeed assassins, I doubt very much they would be able to offer more information than how much coin they were to earn from this very…_slapdash_ attempt at our lives…"

"_Exactly!_" Moppet repeated, stamping a foot. She glared at Alistair.

"A sword does not have a mind," Sten recited, like a prayer. "It is only a tool for killing an enemy."

"Yes well, very poetic I'm sure," Alistair sighed, even as the assassin began to stir. Behind them, Oghren made an exasperated sound. Starting to rifle through the surrounding dead bodies for valuables, he muttered dark curses under his breath.

"Shush, Oghren," Leliana told him. "He's saying something."

"I still say gut him from collarbone to groin," Moppet growled nastily. "But don't ruin his armour. I think that might fit me."

"For once I agree with the annoying elf," Sten nodded approvingly. "Though I do not intend to lay claim to the inadequate wrappings referred to as 'armour'."

"Will you lot just…!"

"Ohhhh…oooh…I think I just…" The elf assassin sat up slowly, assisted by Leliana. His eyes travelled over the individuals arranged around him. "Have I died and gone into the Beyond?" he asked. "I can think of worse fates than to be welcomed into the land of the dead by…" His eyes moved from the silver haired, silver eyed elven woman with the very fierce expression first, to the scantily-clad, bored brunette next and then to the pale red-haired woman beside him. "…by such a lovely escort…"

"Oi," Alistair began in a warning tone, disapproving the particularly lingering look the elf bestowed on Leliana. "Watch it!"

To his chagrin, the assassin gave Alistair an even longer and just as appreciative stare. "Oh I am. I am," the elf grinned at him.

Moppet threw her daggers melodramatically into the air. "Can't we just kill him?" she asked. "I have better things to do!"

"Well I'm sorry you have a prior _appointment,"_ Alistair told her sarcastically, "but this might actually turn out to be _important._"

"More important than the Blight?" Sten grunted then walked away in disgust.

"_Fine_."

"Oh? You are going to kill me after all?" The elf spoke cheerfully for someone whose life hung precariously in the balance. "This should be interesting."

"No," Alistair informed him. He cast his fellow Warden an exasperated glare then turned back to the assassin. "Not _just _yet. You have precisely five minutes to explain why, who and when."

"Ah…a philosophical question," the assassin nodded his head in understanding. "Would you like me to find a priest for you? No? I'm afraid to say the Cognoscenti are a little scarce in this part of Ferelden."

"Three minutes!" Moppet barked.

The assassin sighed. "Very well then. Consider yourself lucky my contract does not extend to _information_…" And he began to illustrate just this point; confirming what the Wardens already knew: he had been hired to find and despatch the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden for crimes against the Crown and Country. "When one would think a simple arrest, trial and summary execution would do just as well," he added thoughtfully. "Certainly, far less expensive an option than the hire of one such as myself."

"Why?" Alistair asked, curious. "Are you expensive?"

The elf gave him a direct look that made him slightly queasy. "For you, I can be."

Alistair rose swiftly. "Right. Let's kill him then."

"No, wait! Wait! I have a better idea!" the assassin said quickly. Alistair passed a hand over his face. He hadn't really meant what he said, though in hindsight suggesting what he had just…_suggested_, especially around someone like Moppet and Sten…and Oghren and Morrigan…and…_Oh for the love of…! _Killing another person while they were attacking was completely different to killing someone you'd just had a rather pleasant chat with. While he wasn't about to suggest they do each other's hair or swap humorous cheese stories, Alistair was deeply uncomfortable about murdering the elf in cold blood. Nor was he about to let anyone else do it. "And what is this 'better' idea of yours?" he asked. "You have five seconds."

"Again with the timing?" the elf enquired. "Very well. I am not without skills. And as I said before, my life is forfeit now that my mark has failed. I…"

"Two seconds!"

"I swear an oath of allegiance to you and your fellow Warden…"

"One!"

"My life is yours! Iammyourmanwithoutquestionth isIswear!"

The elf waited for his sentence, looking up at them all with expectant though guarded eyes. He had been tracking the Wardens for weeks and still had no idea who led this particular group. Not the large, coppery-skinned giant, so clearly a soldier…and not the curvaceous, sour mage either. The lovely red-head appeared to have no authority and the dwarf could barely keep himself upright. As for the two Grey Wardens…He would normally have stayed clear of the Dalish, renowned as they were for their tracking and fighting skills, but this one was…strange. And she wasn't in charge.

But neither was the lanky human who bore an uncannily convenient resemblance to the deceased Ferelden King…Or was that conveniently uncanny?

"I say we kill him," it was the Dalish that spoke first, breaking the tense silence. "I can barely understand him."

The other Warden turned to her. "You want to kill him because he talks too fast?" he asked. The Dalish shrugged.

"I want to kill _you _for breathing."

"Point. Taken." Alistair exchanged a look with Leliana. The pleading look in her eyes was almost too much, even though his mind had already been made up. He extended a hand towards the assassin. "Very well," he told the man. "I accept your oath and consider you bound by it until such time as I or…my…_self_ chooses to release you from it."

"Or you die," Moppet added. "That remains a viable option."

"Thank you, that too, I suppose," Alistair sighed. "Just…just mind yourself. Don't annoy the elf, speak to the qunari, steal the dwarf's ale or breathe too loudly around the witch and you'll be fine. Oh, and my special stash of cheese is off-limits too."

The elf bowed. "I shall endeavour to keep that in…mind."

"You do th…" The sense of weirdness returned. Something was…wrong…Alistair looked quickly again at Leliana, but no. He'd been incorrect. It wasn't her, it was…

And for the second time that morning, the forest erupted. And then the strange feeling suddenly made _sense._

_Grey Wardens…_

-oo-

"_Die abomination…!_"

Loghain looked up, folding the fine piece of parchment into a neat square as he did so. _More good news from Denerim…_put aside for a while. The copper-haired templar Duncan had recruited from the Tower of Magi still insisted on that _particular _war cry for everything. He frowned. Though the ex-templar's opponent's head was concealed under a full helmet, there was no mistaking that stance as the two men continued to spar.

Frankly, after the last time Cullen had clashed with Alistair, he thought the older of the two ex-templars would have been pushed off the nearest cliff by the Commander. On the other hand, he also knew Duncan would have liked to recruit more than just the one, damaged templar. So rather than stop the practice session, Loghain continued to watch, taking critical mental notes.

Young Cullen's longsword was heavier, had better reach, but it was embarrassingly clear who would be bested. The Theirin whelp had this time – in deference to Cullen's two handed choice of weapon – decided to forgo the use of his shield, while retaining the one-handed gladius that appeared foolishly outclassed. At first. Cullen could deal powerful blows, but while he needed to charge those blows, Alistair would duck in between, dealing rapid strikes of his own to unprotected areas. It was like watching a hornet riddle a bear until the clanging sound of Cullen's armour made the younger man's strategy more evident.

Alistair – the sneaky bastard – had been cutting the leather ties of his opponent's armour. And…distracted and hampered by the loose pieces of metal, Cullen began to make mistakes…

"You've been teaching him to fight dirty, I see…"

Loghain straightened at the Warden Commander's voice. "I've been teaching him to fight _opportunistically,_" Loghain corrected with a lift of an eyebrow.

"It was not meant as a criticism, Loghain," Duncan told him mildly. "But a compliment."

"Well," Loghain drawled as – using Cullen's distraction with his loosened tassets – Alistair darted forward, sweeping his opponent's feet from under him with one of his own. The young Warden fell hard, but Alistair did not wait for Cullen to rise for another round, dropping to press one knee into Cullen's chest plate and the point of his sword into the ex-templar's throat. "One of us would have eventually. I've seen the way you fight, Duncan. Not particularly sporting."

"Darkspawn aren't known for _Teyrn's Rules,_ as you well know," the Warden Commander replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Loghain snorted. The two men watched Alistair help his fellow Grey Warden back to his feet; the younger man chuckling at Cullen's dismay at his ruined armour. The two cleared the field and were replaced by two more Wardens, this time more evenly matched in weaponry.

"You wished to speak to me, Warden Commander?" Loghain asked.

Duncan remained silent a few minutes more, the ring of metal stinging their ears and echoing off the bare rock of Redcliffe's obviously-named ochre landscape.

"You…know what must be done Loghain…"

When Duncan spoke finally it had come - almost - as a surprise, but Loghain merely shrugged. "My situation is not so different than yours, Commander," he said.

"Even taking those factors we discussed earlier into the equation Loghain," Duncan reminded him, "you will still have more time than I. The Order must be prepared. Should the Grey Wardens fail…"

"Failure is _not_ an option," Loghain interrupted harshly. "I did not dedicate my life to expelling Orlesian scum from my country only to see it overrun by mindless monsters."

Duncan sighed. "Then you think as I do. As much as I don't wish to see the lives of our Wardens thrown needlessly away, we must do everything we can to stop the Blight _here_, before it spreads…and no, I don't think exporting the Blight to Val Royeaux is an option."

Loghain folded his arms across his chest, scowling. "I wasn't about to suggest it."

"Still…" Duncan continued. "The Order must continue to be established. Even in the Thaw, Maker willing."

"The Maker might not have anything to do with the Archdemon, but I _understand_ Commander." Loghain snorted again. "Do you really think the lad is up to it?"

"Under your guidance he will be."

Loghain pinched the bridge of his nose, successfully concealing the beginnings of a smug expression. His daughter had ensured the throne would remain in Ferelden hands. Through the Grey Wardens, the country was united – humans, elves and dwarves together - stronger than ever…and this new scandal in the Guerrin family (why…the _Arlessa…? _Attempting to conceal her mage son from the Chantry? Who would have thought it possible?) might remove Eamon's interfering presence at court _permanently_. Overseeing Alistair's training as the next Warden Commander would be an opportunity to make sure the whelp's thoughts never strayed towards the throne_._

Not that he could foresee that happening. Maric's by-blow was sickeningly loyal to the Order of the Grey. Add in Arl Eamon's early influence and Alistair already came indoctrinated with a dread of court life. While it made the boy reluctant to lead, Loghain was confident with a little _work _Alistair might make a decent Warden Commander.

Of course, that was all dependant on whether Alistair survived to be trained in the first place. For that matter, it was dependant on whether _he _survived to train Alistair. The final battle with the Archdemon loomed; an impending storm that none could outrun. Loghain could feel the call of the corrupted dragon in his bones, never mind how much it screamed in their dreams. For one Warden at least, this had been too much…the exiled Aeducan lass for example had chosen to hurl herself into a lake of lava rather than continue to bear the scream of the Archdemon in her head. And yet those she left behind – including the cutpurse who'd formed an attachment to her – had become even more resolved to putting an end to this madness.

_Soon. _

A cheer went up from the crowd now gathered around the sparring field. Daveth was the victor this time, throwing up his hands and dancing around his bemused opponent, the bright green ribbon of his deceased lover fluttering from his vambrace like a banner.

Loghain nodded.

"I will do what I can, Warden Commander."

-oo-

_Loghain…a Grey Warden…!_

And the entire time that traitorous Warden from Jader had proposed the idea, all Alistair could focus on was the ridiculous green ribbons in Calea's hair. She'd fought Loghain, despite her size and her smaller weight and her substantially fewer years. Fought the duel proposed by Bann Alfstanna despite his objections. _He _would have gladly fought the man who left the Grey Wardens and _his King_ to die. Fought him to the death. Unlike his counterpart, Alistair knew for certain that he would not have stayed his hand at Riordan's words. The final blow would have been made and they would not be _here, _trying to 'decide' whether to save the life of the monster who'd had little trouble sentencing himself and Calea to death.

_Green ribbons…!_

Dammit!

Alistair continued to pace; the heat of his anger burning brighter with every step. If he hadn't been so incandescent with rage, he might have had a better argument to offer than the one he had stuttered in the Landsmeet chamber. _Who had even admitted Riordan in the first place?_ It must have been Leliana…or that sneaky, smirking assassin Zevran or…!

The sound of the door opening and closing interrupted Alistair's fuming thoughts. He turned to see Arl Teagan pause at the entrance, leaning against the door briefly before taking a few steps forward. Teagan shot Alistair an enquiring glance before turning to the other Wardens.

"The Landsmeet await your decision, Wardens," Teagan told them all. "As does…Calian's widow."

Even through the thick mist of his anger, Alistair could still see a hint when it smacked him in the face with a wet flounder. The Arl of Redcliffe's disappointment in Queen Anora had been abundantly clear when she continued to refuse to force her father to relinquish the regency. Wasting troops on a civil war instead of the Blight, despite the stories of horrifying beasts overrunning farmland and towns, despite the huge numbers of refugees crowding the streets of Denerim, some so desperate for passage to other, safer lands they were willing to sell their own _children_ to meet the high prices set by profiteering sea captains and merchants…Madness!

The Grey Wardens had left the main Landsmeet chamber before announcing who would rule and Alistair knew the Arl was keen for the Wardens' support of a more appropriate ruler. One that was not _Anora._

"Well, they'll have to _wait_, won't they?" Alistair sputtered, trying not to sound petulant, but knowing full well how childish his words sounded. Even to his own ears. Making Ferelden wait for the decision…after establishing the urgency of the Grey Wardens' cause did not make them – or him – look particularly well, but he knew he was in no condition to make announcements. That last sentence just now had taken a great deal of effort, not to mention…some of his anger.

It had begun to wane. Just a little. Every time he turned and caught a glimpse of those _irritating _ribbons. And…

Alistair's feet pounded across the cobbled floor to Calea, stopping just short of her bemused, curled form. Ignoring her curious gaze, he reached out and rubbed his thumb across her cheek, wiping Loghain's smear of blood from her skin. That task completed, he about-faced, continuing his pacing again. More anger drained out of him. He turned purposely towards the wall so the others in the room couldn't see the flare of red in his own cheeks.

_Sod it…! In the words of my fellow Warden; I need to kill something…Preferrably Loghain…!_

"Well, I'm sorry to cut this interlude short Alistair," Teagan spoken again, "but if we don't act now, we risk losing the support of the Landsmeet. We cannot afford to back down from our course. Not now."

Calea sighed, flexing the fingers of her left hand still. A blow from Loghain had shattered the shield she'd borrowed from Alistair. Despite the old Mage's quick healing, her hand remained worryingly numb. There had been no time to pursue the subject of her injury, or injuries. Once Riordan had made his proposal, her priority had been to remove Alistair from the Landsmeet Chamber as soon as possible. A potential ruler out of control of his wits was not one the nobles needed to see.

And this was…Grey Warden business.

"Why?"

Alistair had spun back, advancing on herself and Riordan once more. "Why the _Fade _should we spare the life of a man like Loghain?" he demanded. He punched the air before Riordan with his finger. "You _knew _Duncan! You claimed to be his friend! How could you even _contemplate _admitting that traitor into our ranks? Becoming a Grey Warden is an _honour, _not a punishment!"

When Alistair saw the Senior Jader Warden look towards Calea a suspicion began to grow in his mind. Had this been Calea's idea all along? Were the two of them in it together?

_No…! Dammit, _his mind screamed at him. Long strides returned him to the other end of the room. Thinking this way was stupid. He knew very well neither himself nor Calea had met or even spoken to Riordan at any length before now. If anything _he _had been the one monopolising what little time Riordan had to spare since being released from the Arl of Denerim's torture rooms. Alistair had pestered the senior Warden about the the other Grey Wardens, why they hadn't come in force…how they were going to defeat the Archdemon…

"For the love of the Maker Alistair, calm down!" Teagan commanded in exasperation. "I know you are angry. As am I. Loghain left one of my own _blood _to die that day at Ostagar. You are not the only one to have lost a loved one!"

Alistair stopped pacing. Bracing his palms against the wall, he leaned his forehead against the stone. His fingers curled into fists. He knew Teagan was right. _Maker…_how many died that day at Ostagar? When they hadn't needed to? Trusting in help that did not come? Believing in a plan that was never executed? That had never intended to _be_ executed?

"_Calea…!_" When Alistair spoke his voice sounded like a plea. The cry of a man drowning as the thoughts keeping him afloat in the ocean of his sanity slowly unravelled.

Those _damned _ribbons swam into view. Her back against the wall beside him, Calea crossed her arms. She took a deep breath, staring at her feet.

"You…" she began calmly. "You didn't join during the Blight Alistair."

Alistair frowned. "What the Fade does that have to do with it?"

"Did Duncan not tell you how much more difficult it is for a Warden undergoing the Rite during a Blight?" It was the Jader Warden that spoke. "Warden Calea was lucky to survive," Riordan continued. "Only one passed at your own Joining, Alistair. At Calea's ceremony I understand it was only one who _survived_."

Alistair's forehead creased into a frown. Technically, only _one _had died from the Joining potion as he recalled it. As to the other…He turned around. Slowly. "You expect Loghain to die from this? Is that it? Execution by Darkspawn blood?" Keeping the image of Ser Jory sinking to his knees - Duncan's dagger dark with blood - at bay, Alistair added, "Well, it would be fitting, I suppose."

"With the Archdemon screaming in his head…" Calea added softly. She raised her eyes to him finally. "Loghain never believed the Archdemon existed. Still doesn't…"

"And I aim to prove that to him," Riordan stated in a fierce voice. "Prove that he was wrong and that Duncan was right."

_Andraste's arse…! _Alistair dragged a hand through his hair. "And what if the bastard survives? I refuse to fight alongside him!"

"You won't be, if I have a say in it!" Teagan growled. "If you are to be King, we cannot risk you too close to enemy lines. Not as we risked Cailan."

"Well you won't have a say in it," Alistair argued, the very idea of _ruling _sapping the last of his anger from him. "I'm a Grey Warden. Grey Wardens fight the Blight regardless who or what they are..."

"And if Loghain attempts to kill you in battle too?" Teagan snapped.

"This is getting us nowhere…" Calea pushed herself away from the wall. "And we're wasting precious time." Striding across the floor, she sketched the same route as Alistair had when he had been pacing. "Can we at least agree on one thing: Anora cannot be allowed to resume rule of this country…? Quite apart from the whole regency thing, her decision to raise excises on trade with Orzammar _suck._ I mean, where else in the sodding stone is she going to find metal ore? Up her ar…nose? Not to mention her support of your stone-cursed Chantry having sole purchasing rights to lyrium! Orzammar should be allowed to sell to _anyone._"

Despite his anger and his disappointment, Alistair found amusement bubbling up at his fellow Warden's words. "Please don't tell me you became a Grey Warden to promote free dwarven trade, Calea…" he began.

Calea made a face at him. "This is an _opportunity_! I can't pass an opportunity like this up!"

"Very well," Teagan interrupted with a small cough. "Alistair will rule."

"Maker help Ferelden…" Alistair muttered.

"And Loghain?" Riordan reminded them all.

"And _Anora_," Calea added, with a sharp look towards the Arl.

Alistair frowned. "She'll be locked up safe and sound while we save the country," he said. With an apologetic glance towards Teagan, he added, "If I should die, then we'll have at least _someone _with a clue about what they're doing to take over. If not then…"

"Then we have her sign an agreement stating – in return for her father's life – she will give up all and any claim to the throne of Ferelden," Calea suggested.

"Well that's a…"

"With her _blood_," the dwarf Warden added nastily. "_Ancestors_," she felt the need to explain, owing to the shocked expressions cast her way. "I don't want that woman anywhere _near_ Bhelen. They're two are peas in a pod, it's terrifying…!" She paused, looking thoughtful. "Better yet, kick her out of the country, while we're at it."

"Now that's extreme," Teagan lifted an eyebrow at the dwarf Warden. "Even for me."

Calea waved a hand in the air. "I don't ever want to see a half-Bhelen, half-Anora running around. And I used to think nightmares about _broodmothers_ were bad..."

"_Loghain_…" Riordan's voice repeated yet again.

Alistair folded his arms, sinking his chin onto his chest, the deep rumbling sound emerging through his breast plate indicating extremely unhappy thoughts behind his glowering expression. Calea looked towards Arl Teagan, avoiding eye contact with Riordan, not quite willing to throw her lot in with the older Grey Warden just yet. Not while Alistair was still trying to come to terms with the possibility of Loghain Mac Tir becoming a Grey Warden.

Teagan meanwhile kept his gaze trained on Alistair, attempting to judge the man's thoughts. He had known Alistair since boyhood, never knowing the lad to ever be subtle.

Across the room, Riordan maintained a steady scrutiny of the dwarven Warden. Duncan had spoken very highly of young Aeducan. Riordan himself had been surprised that a member of dwarven royalty had been recruited, especially from one of the shrewdest lines in dwarfdom. If anyone had the slightest persuasion with Alistair, it would be her…

Alistair on the other hand looked at no one, wanting nothing more than to simply pick up his weapons, don his heavy armour and march straight at the Archdemon and its minions, never mind the allies they had gathered.

And there it was…the one argument he could not deny. Or ignore.

_Grey Wardens did whatever it took…_

Defeat the Blight.

Pushing himself from the wall, Alistair approached Riordan slowly. Deliberately. Looking the other Warden in the eye, he said…"Put Loghain through the ritual. Maker have mercy on his soul…he'll have none from _me_ if he survives. And if he isn't already insane, the Archdemon will make sure he'll get there." _Forgive me Duncan…my King…_

A moment of understanding passed between the two men. Riordan nodded in acknowledgement…the sombre mood spoiled completely by a loud raspberry blown rather rudely by Calea.

"Insane?" she demanded. "Insane? What the…? Bloody ancestors tits Alistair! You saying I'm _insane _now_? _Come here and say that and I'll show _you _bloody insane…!"

-oo-


	16. Intentions

A/N: apologies this chapter has taken so long to get here, folks. It feels like an age since I've been able to sit down and actually write, and then when I'd finished, I'd decided to re-write the entire last third. Also, it's long. Again.

A quick warning: this chapter contains the death of a character.

-oo-

**Chapter 16 – Intentions**

Her skin _itched,_ feeling as though it had taken on a life of its own. It seemed an age since she had been anywhere near a bath, the concept of being clean for more than a couple of days at a time seeming so foreign now. She was a Grey Warden; a life that was not known for luxury or privilege, though she didn't really need that reminder this close to the horde. It wasn't just the dirt of travel that was making her feel this way, but the _Taint_. A thousand ants might well be crawling all over her, biting and burrowing under her skin, never mind the _dirt_.

Beside her Alistair looked like he might be experiencing the same, discomfiting sensation. He shifted restlessly, flexing his shoulders under his armour, frowning fiercely as though the layers of fabric, leather and metal he wore irritated him. Like her he could not stop moving; shifting from foot to foot, his gaze darting constantly about him. He – as were all of them - eager to proceed, but the gathering of Grey Wardens was small; too small to engage so many…

Aerydd cast a look over her shoulder too. The elves were the first to catch up after what felt like precious hours and not mere minutes. Silent and light-footed in their approach, they appeared little fatigued, unlike the dwarven contingent. The arrival of the Orzammar forces were marked by a chorus of hoarse grunting and the thundering, metallic rumble of heavy metal. Even further behind were her own kind – humans – united under the Redcliffe standard, the strain of the four-day forced march evident in their dirt-streaked, exhausted faces.

There would be no time for rest. For any of them.

Denerim was aflame.

A sickened red sky hung over them all; the combined stench of Darkspawn and burning flesh pervasive and overpowering. Black smoke billowed from the rooftops visible from this distance; from buildings still standing despite the horde's onslaught. The air itself coiled thick and greasy about them, though not quite heavy enough to muffle the cries of the dying and tortured beyond the broken city walls.

A screech ripped through the air above their heads, taunting the Grey Wardens. Aerydd and Alistair ducked automatically as the clawed shadow swept across the corpse-littered plain.

_Follow me…Join me…_

"Aerydd!"

Alistair's hold on her arm was harsh and urgent. She'd stumbled forward, the instinct to answer the Archdemon's call halted by her fellow Warden's shout and the deliberate pain he'd inflicted on her.

"We need to…" he began, breathless and she realised The Call had been almost as difficult to resist as it had been for her. His eyes snapped into focus with a brisk shake of his head. "We need to wait, hard as it might seem right now."

Aerydd nodded slowly. The Grey Wardens had hoped to be able to lure the Archdemon out to the Denerim plains, but the beast clearly preferred to seduce the Grey Wardens into the city where close quarter fighting and separation from their allies was inevitable. They had barely had a chance to engage the Archdemon and already it had them at a disadvantage.

It made Aerydd fuming mad. She thought that she fully understood the importance of destroying the Archdemon before. Now…faced with countless Darkspawn, the fathomless destruction they wreaked…and the pull of the Archdemon underlying _everything_ that understanding seemed so childlike, naïve, inadequate. This, today, now - and whatever lay before them in the next few hours or even minutes - the true significance of their role felt more…_real_. Painfully so and as unbearable as The Call was alluring.

_Today we die so others may live…_Aerydd counted her breaths. _Steady…one…two…_She would have liked to have been able to see Fergus one more time. But where could he be in a burning city? If he and the other Grey Wardens had still been alive when the Horde attacked would he have perished by now? She would know soon enough. Duncan had decided that if the Archdemon would not come to them, then the Grey Wardens would meet it at the top of Fort Drakon; the highest point in the city. It seemed the logical place to battle a flying creature. And in Fort Drakon perhaps she could find some trace of her brother.

That is, if they could manage to fight their way through the thousands of Darkspawn, somehow convincing the Archdemon to follow them along the way. _Because so far the Archdemon's been so cooperative…Oh, wait._

The line of Grey Wardens rippled and parted, making way for their Warden Commander. He'd fallen back briefly to confer with Bann Teagan and their Allied leaders and now he returned, dark eyes scanning the scene of destruction and chaos before them. One of the older Grey Wardens; a compact, bare-headed warrior of Tevinter origin by the name of Julius came to stand at Duncan's right, the hulking form of the Anders Warden, Grigor positioning himself on the Warden Commander's left. Aerydd could hear the others behind her shuffling into battle formation.

"Once we have cleared the city's gates," Duncan reiterated grimly. "We must – at all costs – push towards Fort Drakon. The sooner we can lure the Archdemon to the top of the Fort, the bett…Maker's breath!" he exclaimed, eyes widening.

Sprinting towards them were half a dozen men in blood-spattered armour. If the prickle of the Taint had not been so unmistakeable, even with so many Darkspawn about, the symbol stamped on their armour would have identified them on sight.

_Grey Wardens._

Duncan strode forward, his pace increasing. One man in the lead; a lanky, dark-skinned individual who could easily have been mistaken for the Warden Commander's younger brother extended a hand, teeth flashing in a welcome grin. The two men clasped arms briefly; the relief in each other's expressions quite clear. Aerydd felt Alistair nudge her arm. He nodded at her and obediently, she followed his indicated line of sight.

_Green Laurel leaves…outlined in ocean blue…_

Aerydd peered unblinking at the crest, thoughts of Grey Wardens and Archdemons displaced by a sudden, falling sensation. She swayed on her feet. Her eyes stung from smoke yet she could not bring herself to blink, lest the ghostly vision disappear. What she was seeing didn't seem quite right and for one hopeful moment she told herself that if a stranger had found a Highever tabard and decided to wear it for whatever reason, she supposed she had no choice in the matter. The alternate explanation was too painful to consider.

Whatever the reason or circumstances, Aerydd could not deny the fact that the soldier wore her _father's face_.

Which was _impossible. _She had seen – witnessed - her father die, slumped in a pool of his own blood, her mother clinging to him in their final moments of life together. So, _who…?_ Her tainted brain playing tricks on her; making her see and hope for things she could not have before she died?

Then the soldier was standing mere centimetres away, smiling with her grandfather's brown eyes. With a shake of his head, he threw arms around her that felt unreal and unfamiliar. When the man drew back, he was laughing. "You are a sight for sore eyes, sister!" he told her. "When Cailan told me you were safe with the Grey Wardens I refused to believe it until I saw you with my own eyes."

A name occurred to her then. One that she had thought lost so long ago. One that didn't fit at all with the careworn, grey-touched individual addressing her.

"…Fergus..."

He raised an eyebrow at her; an expression so familiar it _hurt._ "Yes?" Her mouth opened, closed, but no further sound emerged. And then he was being dragged away by Teagan Guerrin, claimed for some other less important reason such as battle strategy and saving the country. He cast a look at her over his shoulder; a look that was both apologetic and amused at the same time and then he was gone, consumed by a wall of armoured bodies and duty.

_A dream…It was just a dream. A nice one…_she told herself, staring at the broken ground at her feet and then at the empty space where the apparition of her brother had been. At least, her thoughts added, she'd gotten to see him again, even if he had been a mere figment of her imagination.

"You aren't going to follow him?" An elbow dug into her side. Aerydd scowled at the owner of that elbow, giving the offending limb an extra blast of scorn.

"I happened to be having a nice daydream!" she snapped at Alistair. "And now you've spoiled it!"

He gave her an odd look, frowning at her for several seconds. As they waited the armies were called to muster; Duncan pacing several steps before them. He was speaking; some kind of rousing, spirit-lifting speech spurring their hearts and bodies into battle.

"Wha…you don't surely…" Alistair paused again, amidst a raucous bout of shield bashing and shouts of enthusiasm by the dwarves. "For someone supposed to be a figment of _your _imagination!" Alistair yelled above the cacophony, "Your brother Fergus seems remarkably solid!"

"What?" Aerydd screamed in response. It seemed the only way to make herself heard.

"And it seems to me you're going to have to work on a darned good apology to King Cailan if we survive this!" Alistair added. As he spoke the Grey Wardens began to move. Bann Teagan appeared once more, too many bodies away. Fergus angled himself away from the press of soldiers around him. He grinned at her, offering her a cheerful thumbs up. Beside Aerydd Alistair drew his sword, shrugged his shield from his back and secured it firmly into place.

"Humble pie!" he added, grinning at her wide-eyed expression of stubborn disbelief. "Let me know if you want some mash with that! I think I can arrange it!"

The Grey Wardens began to charge, Alistair with them, the city's gates their first target. Blinking rapidly, Aerydd sprung after them, bumping from shoulder to shoulder as she worked hard to catch up. A quick scan of the charging line showed that the humans had fallen behind again. She could not locate the Highever crest anywhere in the rush, but she had no intention of losing sight of Alistair now. Perhaps he was right, her annoying Grey Warden human mabari. She wasn't seeing things. Fergus was alive and for some reason…allowed to arm himself and join the battle against the Darkspawn.

It didn't matter.

She increased her pace, drawing close to the sunburst symbol of the Maker on Alistair's shield and keeping herself right beside him. _Better they fall to the rear, _she told herself, gritting her teeth. The last thing she wanted was to be anywhere _near _her brother. Darkspawn were drawn to Grey Wardens and she would do her best to lead them from him.

On a day when her own, continued existence was called into question, it was the least she could do for him.

For the last of her line.

-oo-

A plain handkerchief, free from lace or embroidery…a strand of prayer beads, well-worn…her lute…How she managed to carry _that _wherever she went Alistair did not know. It didn't matter at this point. Wherever she was now, the lute could no longer follow, except to lie on this pile to be burned with her other personal items…and her body.

Despite the Grey Wardens' attempt to put Leliana through the Joining, she had not survived. The Taint had taken her just as stubbornly as her call to the Maker's side. Alistair shook his head at the thought. The young Chantry Initiate had been so firm in her faith, so sure of her role alongside the Grey Wardens. A faith that had ultimately, led to her death. Did her vision tell her she would become tainted? Whether she would succeed or fail? _The Maker works in mysterious ways…_she had told him in her serene, unshakeable voice. Alistair had to concede that she had been correct in that at the least. The Maker did work in mysterious ways. Cryptic even. Because if he'd experienced a dream like that, he would have decided to give up those late night cheese snacks for life and not gone off chasing after the rearing griffon.

As it was, the griffon had found _him._

A hand touched his shoulder. Alistair turned, stepped back from the pyre…the flare of magical fire from Morrigan's palm stinging his cheeks before he could move an adequate distance away.

"She was a good friend, yes?" Zevran asked quietly beside him.

_Friend? _"I don't know whether I would have called her that exactly…" Alistair said slowly.

"Ah, your lover then?"

"What?" Alistair's eyes widened. "No!" _Maker, no…_Feeling obliged to provide some kind of explanation he frowned, thinking rapidly. Leliana had been…He supposed they had been friendly, compared with his interactions with the others in their party. For instance he'd never really gotten on with the witch due to the fact that Morrigan had made it quite clear he'd not met her criterion for the definition of 'human being'. And after he'd stopped responding to her barbs she stopped bothering to speak to him, which worked out quite well for the both of them. He'd been far too busy hauling Moppet from one disaster to the other, there hadn't been enough energy to devote to more than one recalcitrant anyway.

As for the others he had been travelling with, well the qunari might as well have been invisible for all of the silent stares and refusal to converse and the dwarf only spoke to his ale flask. So compared to the shouting matches he'd had with Moppet, Leliana was the only one that he'd been able to actually sit down and have a decent conversation with. Well her and…Zevran. Sort of.

When they had spoken, it had been mostly about his time with the Chantry; swapping stories about their own experiences. Leliana had been a little…_affronted_ by his flippant accounts of his life in the monastery. To be fair, he did take glee in seeing exactly _how_ offended he could make her (Maker knew there'd been little enough humour at the place he'd been forced to call 'home' for nearly a decade of his life). In truth, Alistair wished he could have known Leliana when she had been a Bard. All those tales he'd heard about seduction and intrigue…so much more interesting than daily prayers and a stick across your backside if you didn't scrub the floors well enough for the Revered Mother's eagle eyes.

Alistair liked a good natter, but there were times when he purposely avoided Leliana, just so he didn't have to talk about the Maker and His Plans For Us All…

"I didn't take the time to really get to know her, Zevran," he told the ex-assassin. "Not always, to my detriment."

"As I understand it, she did not always give up information willingly," Zevran mused. "So I am not surprised."

"Well, I could have made the effort, all the same." Alistair frowned, staring into the flames of Leliana's pyre. He didn't really want to have this conversation. He shouldn't be having this conversation. He rubbed a knuckle into his eyes, smearing soot across his face. Guilt made him linger until the flames had ceased climbing to the sky. He knew he should feel more…just _feel _more, but try as he might he could not, unable to decide whether his guilt over Leliana's death was because he should have known her better or that he'd failed to feel enough grief for her loss.

To be quite honest, considering the amount of exposure any of his companions had to the Darkspawn daily, he was surprised any of them had been able to survive untainted this long. He had half a mind to suggest putting the rest of their followers through the Joining, but somehow doubted any of them would agree.

"Warden Alistair?"

Alistair and Zevran turned. "I am sorry to be the one to suggest to you to cut your grief short," the man told him in a melodious, accented voice. "But we must speak. Our scouts have located the horde…heading towards your capital city."

"Denerim?" Alistair frowned. The Grey Warden nodded. "I see…"

"I am sorry," the Warden added. "Even if we were able to depart immediately, we might not be in time to stop the horde from entering the city."

"Well," Zevran rubbed at his chin. "I had no particular attachment to the place, so I cannot say that I will miss it." He slid a speculative look towards Alistair, but the younger Grey Warden looked only slightly stern at him, with little enthusiasm behind the expression. "Don't tell me you have a collection of sighing beauties in Denerim, awaiting your triumphant return from glorious victory, dear Alistair?"

"_No,_" Alistair grunted. "Just a…sort of a sister, I suppose."

"Then I am truly sorry," the Grey Warden – a swarthy individual Alistair remembered from his own Joining, Riordan - told them. "The soonest we will be able to travel will be at midnight." The Warden looked around the cluttered camp briefly. The cooking fire had been dismantled already, tents packed away and piled ready for safekeeping while the Wardens went to meet the Darkspawn; and hopefully, the Archdemon. Currently in camp, there were about fifty to sixty Grey Wardens of various origin; humans from Orlais, the Free Marches and beyond; hard-faced elven mages from Tevinter, sturdy dwarves from surfacer and underground clans. One was even reputed to be an Aeducan, _royalty._ Of all the people gathered here however, Moppet was one of the few – not on scouting assignments - missing.

"Will you tell your Dalish Warden that we will be moving soon?" the Grey Warden instructed.

Alistair nodded, already constructing an apology for Moppet's desertion in his head. It seemed inevitable, now that there was more than two Grey Wardens to battle the Blight, that she never be seen again.

"I have seen her skill with bow and arrow," the Senior Warden told him, interpreting the younger Grey Warden's unhappy expression correctly. "But I understand her motivation…?"

"Is almost non-existent," Alistair told the older Grey Warden sourly. "But I'll find her and drag her back kicking and screaming if I have to."

"Well, I hope it will not come to that," Riordan chuckled. "I have met many new Wardens conscripted against their will," he added. "Not all submit themselves to the Taint willingly and it is not an easy calling, the life of a Warden. Your fellow Grey Warden is no exception…and undergoing a Joining during a Blight…" Riordan shook his head, as though he considered Duncan's decision to put _anyone _through the Joining ceremony during a full blown Blight was a tad insane. "It cannot have been easy for her."

"Nor is being eaten by a dragon," Zevran felt moved to add. "But what do I know?" he added cheerfully as two discouraging pairs of eyes fell upon him. "I am merely an innocent bystander. Pay me no heed."

The older Grey Warden shook his head again. "And you tell me this General Loghain has posted a bounty for your capture?" he asked.

"Capture or otherwise," Alistair confirmed. He didn't think telling Riordan the Hero of the River Dane preferred every Grey Warden in the country dead was necessary. As it happened, if Duncan hadn't been corresponding with the Jader Senior Warden almost up to the day he died, Riordan might never have taken the sea route…entering Ferelden, not through the border with Orlais as expected, but via the southern ports and then across-country to avoid populated areas – such as they were – as much as possible.

"This bounty will make our task slightly more difficult," Riordan admitted with a frown, "though, not as difficult as meeting the Archdemon in battle."

"Not if we let the Darkspawn take the human city…and Loghain's forces with it."

All three men turned in surprise. Moppet had approached in her usual, silent way that two of the three men there had not guessed her approach immediately. Her hair was wet, Alistair noted, the ends plastered to her neck in pewter ropes, her glare solely for his benefit, daring him to defend his fellow humans.

It was Riordan however, who spoke. "Sacrifice an entire city of people?" he murmured. "Even a Grey Warden would think twice about making such a decision."

Moppet curled her lip, silver eyes flashing. "And if General Loghain's armies _stop _us from engaging the horde?" she demanded "If his armies capture us before we are able to engage the Archdemon, what then? Without any Grey Warden to fight, this country will fall to the Darkspawn anyway…a much bigger loss overall, wouIdn't you agree?"

"I love it when you are ruthless," Zevran waggled a finger at the Dalish Elf in the ensuing tension that followed Moppet's suggestion. "It gives me such a _thrill…_"

To his horror, Riordan turned to Alistair. A suggestion of this kind was not something Alistair would ever be prepared to give an opinion on. Besides that is, the 'surely you jest?' kind…"What do you think, Alistair?" the Senior Warden asked. "Considering his actions at Ostagar, what are our chances of convincing General Loghain the true enemy is the Archdemon, not the Grey Wardens, or Orlais?"

Alistair grimaced. The answer was obvious.

"Forget his opinion!" Moppet snapped. "He is a human and a Ferelden! Of course he would say 'preserve the city at all costs'!"

"Hey!" Alistair snapped right back. "There are _elves _in Denerim too, _and_ dwarves. There aren't just humans!"

Moppet spat her disgust to the side. "_Flat ears…_" she sneered. "Worse than humans!"

"Children, children…!" Riordan pleaded for calm. "I have to admit…" he said slowly, reluctantly, "that what Warden Mahariel suggests has appeal. If we had been allowed to cross the Orlesian border as originally planned, we would have been in time to join Duncan and his men at Ostagar and the battle might have gone differently." He offered Alistair an apologetic look. "Perhaps. We do not know. Our detour gave us the opportunity to pick up more Grey Wardens along the way true, but it cost us precious time. Time where we might have been of better assistance to the Warden Commander, Maker rest his soul. Allowing the horde to engage General Loghain's forces in the city is a convenient distraction, not to mention the fact that they may be able to thin the numbers of Darkspawn before our arrival."

Silence fell once more upon the four of them, broken only by Moppet's occasional seething, heavy breathing.

Alistair scratched at his forehead. Sweat beading across his brow had made his skin itch. "It sounds…" When he spoke, his voice sounded heavy and slightly defeated, even to his own ears. "As though you've already made up your mind, Riordan."

For a while it seemed as though the Jader Grey Warden would not answer then; "Duncan was my friend, Alistair," he stated simply. "In one of his letters, he mentioned an argument with the General against calling for more Grey Warden reinforcements. From what Duncan conveyed to me, this Loghain was against _any more _Grey Wardens, regardless their origin. Whether or not this matter was resolved between the two men or simply because Duncan was not given the opportunity to report any progress I cannot tell. All I know is that all but two Grey Wardens perished at Ostagar and our brethren challenged at the Ferelden border with Orlais."

"And he's been hunting _us _ever since!" Moppet tossed her head impatiently. "Blamed for the death of your childish king, branded liars! If that isn't enough evidence for you that your human General is incapable of seeing the _truth _before him, then I would say you're just as insane!"

Riordan tossed the elven Warden a look meant to chastise; a look she coolly ignored.

"An _entire _city of people...?" Alistair winced. "Hundreds of thousands…men, women…_children_…? Left to be destroyed by the Darkspawn?"

"You don't think your superior General can handle a _few_ Darkspawn?" Moppet curled her lip at him. "According to that so-called seasoned soldier, there is no Blight and therefore, no danger!"

"And…now the two of you know _why _only a Grey Warden can defeat the Archdemon," Riordan reminded him quietly, fully aware that history had shown Grey Wardens had sacrificed more than a mere city for the greater good…even if it wasn't a decision that he relished nor wanted to make himself. "You understand this, yes?"

Alistair stared at the ground, unable to look any of them in the eye. Riordan might _express _reluctance, but the older Grey Warden's intent was quite clear: revenge for the deaths of the Grey Wardens. Alistair could understand that but...As for Moppet…she didn't care either way as long as the Human Overlords who destroyed her people and stole their homeland were made to suffer and die horribly so that the elves could once more take their rightful place as owners of the universe. As for everyone else…His eyes returned to Leliana's funeral pyre, the outline of her body no longer visible within the flames still being maintained by the witch. If she had survived the Joining, the Taint, she alone might have been able to lend a persuasive voice against the needless slaughter of so many people. Would the gentle Leliana have been able to present an alternative though?

Or convince the Grey Wardens – Riordan and Moppet – not to sacrifice Denerim and so many?

Alistair would never know. Leliana was dead and there was little use in wishing things were different. Nor would his biases allow him to think of other ways himself. He wanted Loghain and all his followers to stare the Archdemon in the eye; to realise they were wrong at the worst possible moment; to see how their actions had ruined the country they thought they had been saving…

_So many people…_! A sigh escaped him. Heavier than his heart and the duty that lay before them. _We're all going to die anyway, _he told himself. _Does it really matter?_

"Alistair?" Riordan prompted.

"Yes," Alistair said quietly. "I…understand."

-oo-

_Well…that went better than I was hoping it would…_

Alistair paused, his hand still on the door handle. Taking advantage of the relative quiet in the passageway he reminded himself to breathe while he reviewed the conversation he'd just had. He wasn't too sure whether he felt any better about the situation, but he attempted to convince himself otherwise.

One more item on his mental list to cross off…

_And tomorrow…we set off for Denerim…and the horde._ It would be a relief to finally meet the Archdemon. To finally do the duty he'd been tasked to do. The last few weeks and days he'd felt less like a Grey Warden and more of a politician and that felt…_wrong_. By the time he'd managed to get around to having _that _conversation with Zevran, his head had been so firmly in statesman mode that remembering _why _he needed to have that particular conversation with the assassin in the first place had been quite a struggle, never mind Zevran's insistence on treating the subject of discussion with his usual, flippant air.

"_Ah…You wish to extract another promise from me, dear Alistair? Is my original vow now deemed inadequate? This saddens me more than your continued refusal for my offer of the very touching tattoo of our names, intertwined upon your left buttock…"_

_The wall was close enough for Alistair to knock his head against, but he resisted the urge to take chips out of the stone with his forehead and pressed on. "Look," he told the elf gravely. "This isn't _difficult. _I am the older Grey Warden. I'm responsible for her and Maker knows I need to make it up to her for that fiasco with Queen Anora…"_

"_Ah…the lovely bride to be…"_

"_Shut up. I don't trust Anora as far as I could throw her and believe me; she's heavier than she looks. It wouldn't be very far at all."_

"_Such a dainty morsel as your lovely queenliness? I cannot believe it." Zevran's cocked eyebrow mocked Alistair, but by this time, Alistair did not care. He ran tired fingers through his hair. His bed awaited him, along with the long, long march back to Denerim. Should he have left Anora there? Did he care at this point? Sparing Loghain's life at the Landsmeet had taken up the last of his patience with the Mac Tirs. He'd refused Riordan's offer to put General Loghain through the Joining. The man did not _deserve _to be made a Grey Warden, even if he did understand why the Jader Senior Warden had proposed the idea in the first place. _

_No. The Landsmeet had stripped Loghain of his title and his Teynir, but had been – in the end – reluctant to order his execution, despite his crimes against the crown and kingdom. And Alistair, despite his white hot rage against the man, had not been able to kill him in cold blood. Badly injured in the duel, the elderly general had been in no condition for anything else but rest. In his first, kingly act, Alistair had spared the man's life, offering him a chance to redeem himself by defending the capital city. Well…if the horde had gone there, he'd certainly get that chance wouldn't he?_

"_This is personal Zevran," Alistair told the assassin persistently. "Left to her own devices and the throne, Anora would destroy what little is left of the Alienage," he'd added. "You know that. I know that. She's too popular to depose, despite the _mess _she's left the country in and her skewed devotion to her sad parent. We need to keep her under some kind of control."_

"_Yes, well should you ever require the services of an experienced assassin with good references…" _

"_Argh!" Alistair threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Will you make the promise or not?"_

_Zevran smiled the smile of a man fully in the belief the entire conversation had gone completely his way. "But of course," he nodded. "Shall I offer you my pinky?" the elf suggested cheerfully. "Perhaps you prefer us to spit on our hands in a manly exchange of bodily fluids…?" _

Needless to say, they'd simply crooked their little fingers in agreement, Alistair unable to prevent himself from lifting his eyes to the exposed beams of the high-ceiling once their pact had been concluded. Then he had retreated, feeling more tired than ever. Fighting tens of thousands of Darkspawn would be a relief after all this lot. Well, he'd done it. It was over and done with and now…He heard raised voices, coming from _Talion's _room. Except Talion never shouted. She never raised her voice and yet…

When Morrigan appeared in the hallway, the door slamming shut behind her, Alistair jumped, startled by the unexpected noise. The two of them; witch and Grey Warden regarded each other coolly for several seconds before the dark-haired apostate raised her chin in defiance and strode towards him. Alistair narrowed his eyes at her, maintaining eye-contact until she was close enough to brush past him and then she lowered her gaze.

Alistair's arm snaked out to grab hers.

"Pyjama party cancelled for tonight?" he asked. She said nothing. _Huh…_He released her arm and she continued to the end of the hall, leaving Alistair pressing on towards Talion's room.

The door may have been flung closed on Morrigan's exit, but the door itself must have bounced off the frame with the force of the slam, standing now slightly ajar. Alistair could hear flurried movement inside. Pushing at the door, he found Talion bouncing from one end to the other, like a ginger kitten with wings…

He peered a little more closely. _Wait…are those…real wings on her back?_

"What did Morrigan want?"

Talion paused, her back towards him. He hadn't realised her shoulders had been tensed until he saw her relax them, deliberately and purposefully. She turned, a sheepish smile on her too-pale face. Raising her thin hand to her chest, she exhaled in relief.

"Ooh, Ser Alistair! I'm so glad you're here! Tell me: what are you wearing tomorrow?"

"I don't…" His eyes were drawn once more to the twin objects attached to the back piece of her light armour. "What?" He blinked. "What am I wearing?" Had she really just asked him that? "Apart from saying whatever is going to protect me from a blast of unholy fire from the Archdemon, does it really matter?" he asked.

"Ser Alistair!" she pouted at him. "Of course it matters! This is a special occasion! Not everyone gets an opportunity to meet a tainted Old God! Don't you want to look your best?"

_Should he ask?_ It was really too late in the evening for this…

"'_The God of Beauty…'_" she quoted breathlessly. "Mo…Leliana told me that's what Dumat is. I don't want to let the Grey Wardens down by turning up looking shabby! You can bet the Archdemon's going to look his best! Or is it 'her'? Are we allowed to look? Is it done?"

"Done? Done what?"

Talion cupped her fingers around her mouth. She lowered her voice. "Looking at the Archdemon's…_bits," _she whispered hoarsely at him. "To see whether it's a boy or a girl."

"Is this before or after the Archdemon snaps us up and devours us whole in a single gulp?" Alistair asked, still unable to reconcile himself to the current subject of discussion.

"Before, silly!" Talion waved her hand at him. "You wouldn't be able to check from the _inside _of the Archdemon, would you?"

"Right." _It had to be done. Like everything else that evening…that week…that _year…He had to ask. "Talion…What are those objects on the back of your armour?"

"Oh, these?" Talion swivelled to show him, slender hands gripping the edges and flapping them in demonstration. "Wings!"

"That's sort of what I thought…" Alistair said in a defeated voice.

"Yes! Leliana says imitation is the highest form of flattery so when Master Wade asked me what I wanted made out of those Drake scales, I said 'make me Archdemon wings!' and he did. How brilliant are they? Now, do you think if I wore these Hurlock finger bone earrings, the Darkspawn would be offended? Should I go with the shrunken Emissary ears instead? Wouldn't that be wonderful? Ear earrings! Is that too much? Too formal do you think?"

She didn't wait for his answer - unusual in itself - Alistair watching her zip from the bedside table to the wash stand then back towards the bed and to the narrow tallboy at the other end of the room. She wasn't really doing anything but open and close empty drawers and pluck occasionally at her meagre belongings. She couldn't stand still, but when had Talion ever stood still long enough for a single mote of dust to settle on her? It was her usual restlessness…or so it seemed. Alistair was not fooled in the least. She wasn't making eye contact with him as though afraid to do so. She'd been like that since Fort Drakon but only with him, not with the others. Since the Landsmeet she'd distanced herself even further. Her voice might have returned to its lightness and her determination to adorn herself in copious amounts of creative – and terrifying – pieces of handmade jewellery from the remains of Darkspawn had returned but…this was not the same Talion as before.

No. It was worse now.

"_Morrigan_…" He could bet his favourite sword the witch had said something to upset Talion. Or at the least, said something to make her more upset than she already was at _him. _

"You're absolutely right!" Talion exclaimed suddenly. "Those Ogre knuckles might do better! So pretty! They turned the nicest shade of green when I dried them out…Ooh! I have a matching necklace! I know I could count on your good taste, Ser Alistair."

Alistair began backing out of the door. He'd paused, when he heard her voice, unexpected and pitched low…and uncharacteristically melancholy.

"I'm sorry Ser Alistair."

He turned back. Talion was hanging her head as though _she'd _done something wrong.

"Sorry for what, Talion?" he asked, puzzled as to what his fellow Grey Warden could possibly have done to be sorry about. Ever.

"For…For making you King," she told him softly. "You didn't want to be, but I made you do it anyway and on top of it all…"

He couldn't let her finish. It took barely two steps to close the distance between them, barely any effort at all to encircle her thin frame with his arms. It was like trying to hold air and smoke; there was so little of her, but he did it anyway, the tremble in her body causing the looser plates in his armour to rattle. Her hands rose, pushing at his chest. "You didn't want to marry the King's widow either," she added with a miserable downturn of her mouth. "And she certainly doesn't want to marry you. That's not a good start." Raising her eyes to the dusting of beard hair on his chin, she frowned. "Promise me you won't fight in front of the children Ser Alistair. _Promise me._"

_Oh Maker…children with Anora…_That was a thought far more terrifying than being eaten alive by the Archdemon and the country falling into blighted ruin. Now that he was reminded, he did wonder whether the Chantry would be right after all and a good Fade spirit would pluck a child right out of the…_No. No. Just my luck, it would need to be done the usual way. _

_Bleargh._

"Let's just get to Denerim as fast as possible and then see what…Or we can work on staying alive first," he recommended as cheerfully as he could. "And I would hesitate to recommend the Ogre knuckle bone set. Even I have to admit that the bile green does tend to clash with your hair in low lighting."

"Aw, you think? And I suppose with the Blight and all, there wouldn't be a lot of sunlight would there? Fine," she agreed with a determined nod. "The Hurlock finger bones it is!"

"And I'll leave you to it," Alistair patted the top of her spiky head. "Just don't stay up too late. Early start tomorrow."

"Yes Ser!"

With a ghost of a smile she turned away, back to the little runestone-encrusted jewel box Sandal had made for her to carry all her bits and pieces in. Alistair watched her briefly then left the room, closing the door firmly and quietly behind him. He wondered whether he'd ever get the old Talion back again. Back to the way she had been when they were still gathering their allies and running from Loghain instead of meeting him head on. Morose thoughts sizzling depressingly in his brain, he backtracked down the hall, turning the corner to his own bedchamber.

The words of greeting were spoken barely before the door closed behind him.

"Morrigan…"

The witch did not look up from the flames flickering low in the fireplace. "I knew you'd be here," Alistair added. _I hoped you would be here…_

Leaning his back against the door, he folded his arms across his chest. "You have something to say to me?" he growled, plucking the nearest wild guess out of the air. "Make it quick."

-oo-


	17. A Fine Mess

A/N: Chapter again contains death of character/s. And hooley dooley, I can't believe I couldn't make this shorter…insert sad Snail face here. I also apologise for the daggy references.

-oo-

**Chapter 17 – A Fine Mess**

She had no idea where she was going, where she was. She'd had little experience of human towns before, much less a city this large or populated. She was a hunter, not a trader and so apart from being able to accurately send an arrow-head between the eyes of any human that strayed too close to the clan's camp, Moppet had had little need for interaction with large numbers of humans in general. Until Ostagar, she had not seen more than half a dozen humans in one, single place before. And Denerim was _huge_.

_Is this what the Elvenhan cities were like once_, she wondered? Blocks of stone and wood with piles of refuse in between? Master Paivel had described the lost cities as glittering jewels; marvels of architecture, beautiful to behold. Places where wise men held audience with those wishing to be enlightened or entertained; wide spaces for communities to gather…where children could play without restraint or fear. Homes that did not need to be transported from one place to another, but were still at one with nature and the elements.

In this stinking, smoking, diseased city, Moppet was finding Master Paivel's descriptions of the Lost Cities of the Elvenhan difficult to conjure. One burning building looked the same as the next one, narrow alleyways and shallow drains were choked with the filth of civilisation and dead bodies. She had been turned around so many times she could no longer remember which direction she'd come from. Nor had she any idea where the other Grey Wardens were. Systematically thinned as they fought their way through the city, they were now mostly scattered; unable to remain close to each other (though not for lack of trying). Normally, she would have relied on the connection with the Taint to locate them, but with so many Darkspawn about, it was like trying to pick out a single whisper in a crowd of shouting people.

She supposed it did not matter, pausing to catch her breath. Her target was uphill, still easy to see, despite the fog of smoke and obstruction of ruined buildings. On higher ground; the highest point in the city, the Grey Wardens were to meet…if one could use the term 'meet' to describe Riordan's instruction. She did not even know where her other companions were. Sten had charged into the city, alongside Riordan and the older Grey Wardens, deeming them more worthy of going into battle with than his former companions. The witch had disappeared – angry about something or other – before they had even reached Denerim and the dwarf Oghren had fallen in battle at the city's gates.

As for Alistair and Zevran…who knew where they were? Alistair's resolve to face the Archdemon had deepened on the approach to the city and he had ceased to care whether she was near him or not. It bothered Moppet little. What was important now was her own survival. Though she doubted the success of the Grey Wardens' task, there was little point in running. Not now.

The Darkspawn would follow wherever she went and sooner or later she, like her clan mate Tamlen, would become like the monsters they fought.

It was all so…so…

"_Stupid…!_"

Alistair had attempted to explain the phenomenon as had Riordan and still Moppet could not fathom the logic behind the Grey Wardens' so called 'power'. _In order to defeat the Darkspawn, a person would have to master the Taint and _become _a Darkspawn. If they didn't, then they would become Darkspawn anyway._ _Or die. And while they carried the Taint they were still drawn, just as the Darkspawn were to the Archdemon…and they would die anyway. _Because the Darkspawn killed everything that wasn't Darkspawn.

_Unless a Grey Warden allowed him or herself to become Darkspawn and then…_

Moppet brushed her arm across her face, uselessly wiping at the gore and grime from her sweat soaked skin. "Only an idiot would think that logical…" she muttered darkly under her breath. Everything about being a Grey warden was nonsensical. No wonder it had been an _elf_ who had been the one to defeat the last Blight. _Because humans and dwarves couldn't plan a path to their own backsides if their lives depended on it…_

She raised her eyes to above the city's skyline, well aware more Darkspawn approached from the other end of the alley. It was time to move again. Gathering her strength once more, Moppet began to run. There were more important things to do.

In another part of the city, Alistair's shield shattered under the weight of the Ogre's maul. Arm bones splintered beneath flimsy mail and the already dented remains of his armour. Glass shattered…Alistair ducked in time, shielding his eyes against the magnesia-bright flash of burning, hot light.

"This way!"

A hand gripped his elbow, urging him across the bridge, the screams of the Ogre left behind as Zevran's poisonous flash bomb incinerated the creature. The two men paused at a stone wall, Alistair inspecting his injury with annoyed distraction. He couldn't feel any sensation in the fingers of his left hand. _Not good…but does it matter? _His sword arm was still intact.

He looked beyond Zevran's bemused form to the battered gates – remains of the Tower of Drakon's gatehouses - to the stairs that would take them into the grounds itself. The torn body of one of Riordan's Tevinter Mages lay at a twisted angle at the foot of the steps. _Good,_ Alistair nodded to himself. _We aren't the first ones here…_Almost absentmindedly he tightened the straps of his gauntlet, wincing slightly at the pain. Without bandages, there was little else he could do.

"You know," Zevran said slightly breathless. "I had some idea keeping company with the Grey Wardens would provide travel and excitement. But this is – quite frankly – getting ridiculous."

Alistair stepped towards the Fort's entry, narrowed eyes scanning the littered grounds for active Darkspawn.

"You're welcome to leave any time, Zevran," he tossed over his shoulder.

"Ah and let you have all the fun?" the assassin grinned. "When I would not miss this for all of Madam Pettifew's dark-haired beauties and all the clam chowder I could eat?" he added. "You must think me so yellow-hearted, dear Alistair."

"Well," Alistair grunted. A stray Hurlock lunged at him from behind one of the Fort's heavy iron doors. Zevran side-stepped; kicking out his foot and toppling the Hurlock as Alistair swung his sword; beheading the Darkspawn in a single, neat slice. "There's still time to change your mind." Alistair glared at the stone steps ahead of them. "Only death and destruction await us at the top of this Tower."

"Eh," Zevran tossed off a shrug. "I still think my chances of survival alongside a Grey Warden are better than most."

"Suit yourself."

"Oh I intend to, dear Alistair. I intend to."

Ignoring the lazy grin the assassin offered, Alistair pushed past; heading into the Fort itself and hopefully, to the tallest tower. They found more evidence of Riordan's Grey Wardens the higher they climbed, along with Loghain's troops; their bodies sprinkled in amongst the corpses of Darkspawn.

"I'm glad Riordan's men managed to get here first," Alistair said as he climbed over the bloated body of another ogre choking the entry to a narrow landing.

"And women," Zevran's amused voice came from behind. "Makes our job easier, no? I have not gone this far without needing to dispatch a Darkspawn before. Any longer and I fear I shall start growing a paunch and demanding my pipe and comfortable slippers."

A soft huffing ahead indicated some of Zevran's humour had hit home. He grinned to himself while shooting a wary look over his shoulder. He did not trust this eerie silence and lack of enemy. While there were plenty of bodies around, it still seemed strange to him that there was no more…_life_ to be had. Not all of the General's forces were dead in this place surely; or Grey Wardens and Darkspawn for that matter?

The answer came when the two finally reached the final level. Broken bodies peppered the ground, the stones deep in blood and gore. A shattered battering ram lay to one side of the metal doors; one of them barely hanging from a single hinge. The floor rumbled. Just as the two were about to squeeze through to the outside, a burst of blue flame seared the opening. Zevran and Alistair ducked, counted a couple of seconds then passed cautiously through the open doors.

The _Archdemon_…

The beast reared, screaming…wings flailing as another heavy bolt fired from a nearby ballista slammed into its side. As it continued to fight, gouts of flame streamed in bursts from its gaping maws…claws flailed…the dragon fell back on twisted, torn wings.

"It's down! Now, Wardens! Now!"

Alistair turned his head at the unexpected voice. _Riordan…_The senior Grey Warden leapt from his place at the ballista. Two more Grey Wardens came out of hiding, all heading towards the thrashing form of the Archdemon. Alistair broke into a run.

Just as they neared, the Archdemon lurched. Its tail swept out in a wide arc, carving into the nearest Warden and ripping through his armour. The tail end caught Alistair mid-thigh, sending him spinning into the stone.

"No!"

Alistair forced himself partially upright, disoriented at first. Riordan lay barely few metres away, hands scrabbling at the stone in an effort to stand. It had been his cry that Alistair had heard.

"The Archdemon…" Riordan struggled to speak. "It must not be allowed to rise…"

Nodding, Alistair forced himself to his feet. Pain seared along his side, sending him stumbling back to his knees. His good arm barely propping himself up, he realised belatedly that he had lost his sword and he would need to find a replacement _fast._

The Archdemon screeched, raised its head, wings slowly and methodically untangling.

"_Pathetic fools…!_"

A streak of silver darted between the two prone Grey Wardens. Metal flashed blood-red as Moppet used a pile of Darkspawn bodies to vault towards the Archdemon's back. Her landing was not graceful; feet slipping on scales slick with blood. She raised her arm high, plunging her curved dagger neatly between the smaller scales on the dragon's neck. The Archdemon screamed again, arching its neck even as the Dalish continued to work her dagger deeper and deeper into the beast's flesh.

"Never will we submit to the rule of humankind!" Moppet bellowed, dagger sawing downwards. Teeth bared, she added, "Nor will we submit to the likes of _you…_!"

Blue fire hissed from the gaping wound in the Archdemon's neck, a spray of black blood rained upon the stones. Moppet tore her dagger free, raised her arm and struck downwards again, this time severing the creature's neck completely. The Archdemon's body gave one last, deathly spasm then lay still. The Dalish elf fell, rolling across the stone, sputtering angrily at the less than graceful end to her battle with their arch nemesis. She'd just begun to scramble to her feet, when a blast of superheated air engulfed them all.

Alistair had little time except to shade his eyes from the dazzling heat and light, Moppet's figure outlined briefly in brilliant white before it consumed her completely. He had no idea what happened next; the air was sucked from his lungs as he, Riordan and the corpses around him were first tugged towards the remains of the Archdemon…before being blasted back towards the tower ramparts.

Silence fell, empty and cold and dark. Then…sound slowly returned; a crunch of gravel, a slither of leather and metal over rock…and a voice…

"Come Grey Wardens…You have done your duty, but now you must leave."

Alistair found himself being hauled upright. He blinked grit and smoke from his eyes. "Zevran…?"

"Well, it is not the little green Satinalia Goose," the elf assassin told him with a cocked eyebrow. "Up you come…" His eyes drifted over to the other Grey Warden, propped in exhaustion against the tower wall. "You too, friend," Zevran told him. "You might have just defeated the Archdemon, but we have yet to find whether your persistent General has forgiven the Grey Wardens. I would suggest we take a more cautious approach before we do so…"

Riordan nodded weakly, as did Alistair; the three limping towards the exit to the roof. The older Grey Warden took a very brief detour at the Archdemon's side to fill a waterskin with as much of the dragon's blood as their limited time would allow. He then joined the others, shaking his head at the carnage and their need to flee.

"Your Dalish did it…" he frowned at the remaining Fereldan Grey Warden, as though still trying to understand it all.

Alistair looked towards the remains of the Archdemon, wincing at the pain the movement caused. "Yes," he breathed. "I guess she did."

"Perhaps she was not as reluctant to the Call of Duty as you thought then."

Alistair shrugged, too much in pain to speak. He had no idea how to answer. He remembered Moppet's defiant cry before the end…and that was all.

-oo-

"Wait…Mage…You're a healer?" Ella blinked at the voice. The speaker wore heavy armour, his tabard so stained with blood and gore she could barely make out the house crest painted on the material. "There are injured that require your magics…" the speaker told her.

Ella rose, slightly unsteady and dizzied from fatigue. Her fingers fumbled at the pouch on her belt. One more vial of lyrium and that was all.

"Come quickly!" The soldier plucked impatiently at her arm. "Or I will not be responsible for my actions should anything befall my fellow men…"

Ella paused, eyes flashing in anger. Had that been a…a_ threat?_ Her hands grew warm and she gave her head a brisk shake. Setting an ally on fire was possibly not particularly diplomatic, but the Grey Wardens – as she saw it – had just saved the _entire country_ from the Darkspawn. A little bit of politeness surely could not have been so damned hard? Levelling the soldier with a heated gaze she opened her mouth for a scathing scold when a heavy hand fell upon the soldier's shoulder. The soldier turned, paling when he recognised the owner of the hand. "Ser!"

"You address a _Grey Warden,_" the newcomer growled at the soldier. "I suggest you watch your tongue…"

"Ser!"

Loghain continued to pin the soldier with his slightly annoyed, quickly-growing-bored gaze. "There are more Mages on the lower level of this Tower," the older Warden informed the soldier. "I suggest you try your luck there."

"Yes Ser!"

The two Grey Wardens watched the soldier stumble towards the rooftop exit. "Idiot…" Ella muttered under breath.

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "You are needed elsewhere, Majella…"

Ella mimicked the older man's expression. "What about…Jowan?" she asked, as casually as she could. Since the fall of the dragon, she had been afraid to seek out her contemporaries, busying herself with the injured in her immediate area. They had been dwarves_, _mostly…and as resistant to magic as Mages were attractive to demons. It had been hard work healing them.

"If you're trying to weasel an inventory of the surviving Wardens from me," Loghain told her dryly, "You're doing a very poor job of it."

Ella grimaced self-consciously. "So…" she began, tripping over her own feet after the older Warden. She refused to look anywhere but at the ground. As much as she wanted to find out who had survived, she did not relish recognising any of her fellow Wardens in the surrounding piles of dead men and women.

Loghain grunted; the sound almost – _almost _– sounding like he might be amused. "You'll be pleased…" he told her in his paper-dry voice, "or perhaps displeased to know that it was Warden Jory that took the final blow…"

"What!" Ella stumbled, in shock and surprise at _that _piece of news. "That…!"

"Displeased, then," Loghain continued smoothly. "Daveth, I am afraid to advise has not been located, though I think I saw his boots being brandished by a Hurlock half an hour ago…Cullen…"

The list of dead and living washed over Ella. _So many…_but what did she expect? So many of the Grey Wardens – as with their allies - had perished simply fighting their way through the city. And there had only been twenty Grey Wardens to begin with. Jory dead. Daveth presumed dead. Cullen…also dead. Duncan…lived, much to the older Grey Warden's disgruntlement apparently; this piece of information highly amusing to Loghain. Clearly Loghain himself was alive, or he wouldn't be speaking to her. And of course, there was herself…

There was one name missing from that list.

She peeked up at Loghain, wondering whether he was omitting _that _particular name because he was trying to goad her or…no. He wouldn't do that. Loghain had better things to do than tease her and surrounded by so many dead she hardly thought he'd employ humour at such a time…even if the old man was capable of humour in the first place. Since Lothering she'd barely seen him smile more than thrice and one of those times she was sure the expression had not been because he'd been pleased about something but the result of ingesting a less than respectable pickled nug trotter.

Then Ella too found Loghain's hand on her shoulder. She followed it up to his face, a glower darkening his features. "He may resist," he told her in a cautionary tone of voice, "but do what you can…"

"Who…?" she began when he gave her a push towards a flight of shattered stone steps. Her feet slipped on a pool of blood; she gulped at the sight of the Archdemon's headless bulk. Large black flies had already begun to gather around the massive corpse and the stench made her stomach turn. Never, _never _would she get used to the smell of Darkspawn. She thought the dragon would be different, would smell more animal-like, but apparently not. Everything tainted reeked the same whether it was a rose or a Genlock.

Swatting at the flies, she picked her way over the disassembled remains of Darkspawn, soldiers and discarded weaponry. A long bone with the torn sheet of the Archdemon's leathery skin still attached barred her way, entailing an awkward shuffle sideways to avoid it. Her foot slipped on some loose stone when she attempted to scale a pile of rubble, landing herself squarely in a puddle of Archdemon blood. Wrinkling her nose, Ella stood; shaking out her skirts and then simply gave up. Was there any use? She had no idea what happened in the aftermath of the defeat of the Archdemon, but she hoped a bath would be involved some time.

She paused to survey the massive, fleshy mound of the dragon. In the air and in battle the beast had appeared so elegant and menacing at the same time…_huge. _Now, bereft of its head and wings and legs and…everything else, it was less impressive and…_Are those dwarves removing dragon scales…?_

Yes. Sure enough a group of bloodied, but nevertheless entrepreneurially-spirited dwarves were removing sections of scales, tossing them to another group who sorted them and piled them by size before bundling them up and taking them away. _Is that even allowed…? Shouldn't the Grey Wardens have first dibs on those scales…?_ She knew the Circle would have _loved _enough dragon scale – and blood - to supply every potion-making class for the next one-hundred years…!

"_Ella_!"

A wall of metal hit her then surrounded her in a chilly, dented, gory stench. "Maker's breath! I thought you were…I thought you were…"

She found herself thrust abruptly at arms' length. _Ah…_she tried not to smile, but found that she couldn't stop herself from doing so. The individual missing from Loghain's list continued to shake his head at her, not quite believing his eyes, it seemed.

"You're alive! I'm so glad that you…you…"

Automatically, Ella bunched up her hand, sending her fist square into the centre of his chest. "What?" she demanded as crossly as she could. "You didn't write…! You didn't send a carrier pigeon…!" The corners of her mouth turned downwards, her bottom lip trembled. _Stupid Theirin…! _But Daveth was dead…and Jowan was still alive. Alistair surviving almost – _almost! _– made up for the loss of the man that had, in such a short space of time, come to be more of a brother to her than the one she had regarded closest to her heart most of her life. Her throat constricting and tears pricking at her eyes, Ella found herself unable to continue, but Alistair smiled down her, his grin showing a missing tooth…which explained the dark purple bruise taking up most of his left jaw and chin.

"I hope this means you're happy to see me…?" Alistair asked her hopefully, his speech slightly slurred.

"Not in the least," she rasped, slapping him across the chest again. "And anyway, I'm not here for _you, _so there's no need to be so vain," she informed him with a surreptitious swipe of her cheeks with her sleeve. "I'm here for someone _important._"

"Oh…" There was a slight pause. Ella could _feel _his disappointment. Poking him aggressively in the belt buckle, she continued to refuse to meet his gaze.

"If you don't show him – or her – to me right _now, _Warden Alistair," she warned him. "I might be forced to hug you again. And then you'll be sorry!"

Another pause then…"_Oh…!"_

_Maker…he was so damned thick-headed…_!

"Well, I was quite sure that I hugged you first," he began, stepping aside to reveal her patient. "But I guess we'll get to talk – I mean argue – about that later…?"

"Of course," Ella informed him haughtily, "and then you'll see reason and agree that I am actually quite correct. And you are wrong. As usual."

He grinned behind her. "Yes ma'am."

Hastily hiding her own smile, Ella lowered herself to the Warden Commander's side, the injured man half-propped against the splintered pieces of one of the siege engines. There was little of him not covered in blood, what little skin showing appearing sickly pale; too glaring for one so normally dark-skinned as the Duncan. His lips appeared bloodless with a worrying, bluish hue to them. She touched the older man's forehead, finding Alistair hunkering down beside her.

"What can you do…?" he asked in a whisper.

Ella counted the Warden Commander's injuries. Broken leg, some fractured rib bones, bruising…some obvious burns and he'd received a blow to the head, but she'd seen Duncan hurt far worse before. There was something else here. She could detect his life spirit through her connection with the Fade, but it kept eluding her, fleeing every time she attempted to drag it back and strengthen it with her magic. Is this what Loghain meant when he told her 'he may resist'?

Duncan's mouth moved. For a moment, neither Warden could hear what he was saying then, "The song…" he muttered hoarsely. "Can you…hear it?"

Busy weaving her healing spells, Ella could not answer. Loghain was correct. Duncan _was _resisting her attempt to be healed.

"The Archdemon is dead, Duncan," Alistair told their Commander, taking the man's hand and looking increasingly worried. "The Blight is defeated."

"But…I am…still…_alive_…" Duncan stated, sounding annoyed by the fact.

"To continue leading us, Duncan," Alistair told him in a determined voice. "You are our Warden Commander."

"Mm," Duncan merely grunted, then…nothing else.

Ella gasped; clutching at Alistair's arm. "He's…how can he…?" She turned to him, baffled. "I don't know what happened," she tried to explain, but could not. Duncan's life spirit abruptly snuffing out had felt like a bear trap snapping around her brain, leaving her shocked and bewildered. Had Loghain expected her to somehow convince the Warden Commander to hang on and keep living? If so, she had failed miserably in that task and now would he hold her accountable? She would certainly take the blame on herself to the end of her days.

Her answer came in a Loghain-shaped shadow, looming over the both of them.

"He is gone then." It was a statement, not a question. Alistair shot a concerned look towards Ella before turning to the old General.

"We tried…"

Loghain grunted; the two younger Wardens falling into silence as the ex-Ferelden General bent down between the two. He placed a hand on Duncan's shoulder then rose. Ella thought she heard the older Grey Warden sigh, but now that his stern, no-nonsense expression was back in place, she was not too sure.

"This land belongs to the living," Loghain stated simply. "As it should be." He turned to Alistair. "Gather the others, Alistair. You may request Bann Alfstanna's men for assistance on my authority. The bodies of the Grey Wardens will not be allowed to rot along with the Darkspawn in this place."

Alistair nodded mutely, then stood.

"Go with him," Loghain told Ella.

"But I…"

"Go," Loghain repeated. "Archdemon blood must also be collected," he frowned. "As much as possible."

"Yes S-Ser…"

Loghain waited until the Mage had gone, stumbling hastily after Maric's whelp. He had every confidence in her intelligence to understand the unspoken command he'd just issued. There was little she could do now for Duncan in any case. Surveying the Warden Commander's fast-cooling body, Loghain tamped down a wave of irritation.

"Yes…Duncan…" he muttered. "I am as annoyed as you were…to still be alive…"

-oo-

_Shuffle, shuffle…swish…crackle, pop, crackle…_

Calea dusted off her hands, watching the flames burn merrily in the fireplace a few more minutes. Satisfied that all of the parchment had caught alight, she turned, quite pleased that all of the 'filing' of paperwork was now complete. It had been barely a month since the defeat of the Archdemon and her role had evolved from vanquisher of Darkspawn to bureaucrat. She supposed though, given the circumstances there were _worse _things. Cleaning out the garderobes for example, or mucking out the stables or…well _alright, _so politics was a bit like moving poo from one place to another, but what was the alternative? Ancestors forbid she could get away with killing Darkspawn…And it was also a way of avoiding…_No, no, no! I am not 'avoiding' anything._ She was just…killing time…keeping herself out of mischief…making good use of her vast resources of intelligence, diplomacy and charisma to make this world a better place…

She threw herself into the nearest chair, wiggling her bottom and drawing her knees up so that from behind no one could tell someone was sitting there, or even if there was anyone in the room. It was nice…this invisibility. After all this time, her hand still reached down beside her, finding empty air and a hiccup in her heart at the thought there would be no more drool stains on her leathers to complain about. No more finding half-eaten kills in her boots…no smell of wet fur to deplore…and then a soft scratching sounded at the door. Dashing a knuckle at her eyes, Calea slumped deeper into her temporary hiding place. _Invisible. I am invisible…_The scratching turned into a knock. After a few minutes more, the door was simply kicked open.

"I know you're in here."

"No, I'm not," Calea harrumphed, folding her arms tightly across her chest and pouting at the curtains.

"He's been asking for you, you know," the visitor told her rather sternly. "I think you should do him the courtesy of at least looking in briefly. And the Senior Enchanter advises some progress…"

"Progress…" Calea's head popped up above the back of the sofa, her green eyes wide and slightly hopeful, though still very much guarded. "What kind of 'progress'? Why didn't you say so in the first place? Why do you human nobles take so long to say anything?"

Arl Teagan waved towards the door. "Perhaps if you visited him, you might be able to see for yourself," he suggested. "And you would know, surely?"

"Huh…" Calea regarded the Arl with more than a liberal dose of wariness. "In my experience thus far, Ferelden politics appear to involve a great deal of _talking,_" she told him. "Dwarven politics on the other hand are far more straightforward. You disagree; you just lop their head off. End of argument. Of course…" she added thoughtfully. "It means a new house representative then needs to be re-elected, but it makes the saying 'process of elimination' rather accurate don't you think?"

Teagan merely stared at her, one elegant eyebrow curved slightly higher than the other. Calea glared. Was that eyebrow implying that she was avoiding the subject? Because she _wasn't_…

"You're avoiding him, aren't you?"

"I am not!"

"Then go and see him."

"I'm…I'm busy!" Calea sprang to her feet. She headed for the little writing desk with the ink stand and stylish blotter…which was now completely bare because she'd just 'completed' all her paperwork. With her legs swinging several centimetres above the rug and absolutely no evidence whatsoever to show that any work was pending, the image she presented was not particularly…_convincing_. Still… "Can't you see I'm busy!"

"Too busy to check in with your best friend?"

A scruffy-topped head poked around the doorframe. Calea realised that with Arl Teagan standing in the doorway, the only escape she had left was the window. The quick calculation in her head of the odds of survival if she jumped from a window four storeys above ground level did not return hopeful results. And then of _course, _he had to walk inside, the odd metallic thump accompanying his progress into the room causing Calea to wince with every second step.

She tried not to look…Tried not to look…_Ancestor's numb nuts…! _She _looked…_and ever helpful, Alistair stopped conveniently close to her desk, sweeping aside the long coat he'd thrown over his sleep tunic and cut-up breeches so that she could obtain an even better view.

"Great huh?" he said cheerfully. "Master Wade made it for me. Took a bit of getting used to," he continued; while Calea shrunk into her seat with every passing word. "With this I'll be dancing the Remigold before I know it."

She had to admit, even for a human, the craftsmanship in Alistair's new…leg was wonderful. Master Wade had etched the silverite with curlicues of leaves and some sort of rearing dog-like beast…a mabari? A lioness? One day, she'd have someone explain what was on the Theirin coat of arms. Just not…today. Her nose level with the edge of her desk, she peeked from under her eyelashes at him. Her fellow Grey Warden…_ex-_Grey Warden, soon to be King, Hero of Ferelden, etcetera, etcetera…and the annoying man simply smiled at her as if nothing was wrong. As if all of that nasty business with witches and god-babies and being bitten in half by an Archdemon had never, ever happened.

Alistair on the other hand, continued to monitor her gaze. "You think I should have one made in iron?" he asked. "Silverite too flashy, you think?"

Her forehead dropped to the table surface, as did her fist. Both of them.

The moment was broken – thankfully! Because what else was the man good for except for either introducing or ending awkward conversation? – by Arl Teagan Guerrin.

"So…now that the two of you are here. Together. I would like to put forward a suggestion…"

"Suggestion?" Calea straightened, pinning the wily Arl with a suspicious glare. "Or _fait accompli?_ That's what they usually end up as, knowing you."

"Sometimes," Teagan told her with his all too charmingly boyish smile, "it does pay to be _nice_ to people."

"Hey, before lopping off an opponent's head, I'm always nice!" Calea protested.

Alistair stared. "Is that even possible?" he asked then waved his hand. "You know I don't even want to find that out." He turned to Teagan. "So, what is your suggestion?"

The Arl smiled at them both. Calea groaned softly. When Teagan waved towards Alistair, she dropped her head into a hand. "Alistair's coronation..."

"Go with the spotted doilies," Calea interrupted. "I would."

Teagan shot her a _look _and obediently she fell into silence, her eyes continually – and quite involuntarily – drifting back to Alistair's prosthetic leg. The old Mage had been unable to fix that…mostly owing to the fact that once it had been _inside _the Archdemon, Alistair didn't really want to have anything more to do with it. And…his other injuries had taken all of the old woman's magic to heal. He was lucky to have come out of his encounter with the Archdemon with _one _leg, never mind everything else…Not surprising really, considering how enthusiastically Alistair had engaged the beast as though, Calea thought guiltily, he had _wanted _to die by Archdemon…

Remorse stinging her brain, she did not quite catch what the Arl was saying until she heard her name mentioned…"What?" she blurted.

"You know I think that's a good idea, Teagan," Alistair was saying, his nod of approval rather kingly considering he wasn't officially in the job yet.

"I was hoping you would agree, Your Majesty," Teagan smiled his charming smile.

"So many benefits!" Alistair nodded again. "There's the trade and the…well, the trade…"

"And securing ties with our powerful...and far-reaching allies in Orzammar would ensure Ferelden and the Grey Wardens never get caught again," Teagan added.

"With our pants down, as it were," Alistair's smile began to echo his Chancellor's and along with the increasing frequency of their gazes between statements towards her, Calea began to feel slightly…blindfolded. "Even with the addition of the Orlesian Wardens; which I haven't agreed to, by the way…"

"Noted."

"Thank you. It will still take several years to build up adequate numbers of Grey Wardens in this country." Alistair shot her a look that was particularly majestic…and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "But I have every faith in my betrothed to do so as Commander of the Grey…"

"And a Paragon too, I understand," Teagan's charming smile charmed. "Congratulations!"

"Why thank you, Teagan…A spring wedding might suit, don't you think?"

"Not sooner, Your Majesty?"

"Well, there are the invitations to send and I don't have a single thing to wear!"

"Too true, Your Majesty! Too true! We can't have the King turn up to his own wedding looking shabby, can we?"

_BAM!_

The jewelled lid on the inkwell rattled as Calea slammed her hands palm-down on the desk and emerged from behind, like an Archdemon rising from the depths of the Deep Roads, to glare at both men. "What," she began icily, "are we talking about here?"

Arl Teagan directed his gaze upwards, but Alistair met her own cold fire-spitting eyes with his own. "Our marriage of course."

"And what," Calea continued in the same, sub-zero temperatures, "the _stone-cursed, nug-arse does. That. Mean?"_

"Oh, you don't know?" Alistair raised his eyebrows at her. "Well, let's see, you get to wear a pretty dress, we walk down the aisle in front of our adoring public and the Grand Cleric says some sort of prayer before she declares us legally and spiritually bonded to the end of our days, which as a Grey Warden admittedly, isn't particularly very long, but…You know I think you should wear blue. Just a suggestion...Arl Teagan can you excuse us for a moment?"

With a grimace of understanding the Arl bowed and backed, rather quickly, out of the room, the door closing with a very audible click.

Alistair turned to his fellow Warden. "Do you mind if I sit?" he asked. "This new leg's good as new but it don't half make my nether regions ache…"

"Oh…" Calea hastily pushed her own chair towards him, retreating immediately back behind the desk. She wanted to sink behind it, but as there was nothing to sink into, she remained standing. When he had settled, Alistair propped an arm onto the desk, idly adjusting the lid on the ink pot.

"Sorry about that," he said with an apologetic glance towards her. "I had hoped to ask you myself and everything but…well," he exhaled a breath of air loudly. "I suppose it's an incentive for me to stop dragging my fee…"

"This is about Morrigan isn't it?" Calea asked, fingers kneading the edge of the desk nervously. _It was…_she was sure of it. And why wouldn't Alistair get his own back? Ancestors knew what the poor kid had to put up with. Oh…not that Morrigan wasn't an attractive option. Sleeping with a beautiful woman had to have some benefits, but Alistair was Alistair and he wasn't the sort to just throw himself to anyone. The crown wasn't even on his head and already noble houses from all over Thedas were offering their daughters to him as possible marriage partners. He could have his pick of intelligent, beautiful, accomplished women. It was good to be the King…

And Teagan proposing an alliance with Orzammar through a noted _exile…_? Well, clearly Boy-Smile was in on the jest, because there was no way in a lava pit that she would ever be accepted back in…"Wait." Calea blinked owlishly at Alistair. "Who..._Paragon_?" she asked.

He directed a finger at her; Calea's own finger crooked towards herself...and Alistair nodded confirmation.

"Who said?" she demanded. "When did that happen?"

Alistair gave her fireplace a pointed look. "I'm sure the announcement's been tucked away safely," he added. "I got a copy. Luckily. You," he levelled a finger at her again, "have been named Paragon. The Assembly's withdrawn your order of exile. Not surprising considering you already have the Keys to the City."

"But I…"

"Haven't done anything?" Alistair completed her sentence for her. "Except save the world. Just a small thing really."

Calea frowned. "That still doesn't explain the…Alistair I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you…"

"Well, the less said about that the better," he suggested crisply.

"Sorry. Right. Sorry." And now she wished she hadn't given away her chair, except he needed it more than her and…she sunk to her knees, the top of her head partially disappearing below the desk. _What a mess..._Well, they were still alive, if one wanted to look at this from a practical side. Two Grey Wardens left in the whole of Ferelden. Flemeth's plan had become abundantly clear once Morrigan had revealed her little scheme. Why the other Grey Wardens weren't saved made so much sense. If there _were _only two Wardens left, they'd be desperate enough to do _anything _to survive the Blight. Wouldn't they?

_Especially if one of them needed to be King of Ferelden… _

Calea could have simultaneously and happily choked and hugged that damned witch…On the one hand, Morrigan had been her friend. A trusted ally. A damned good person to fight alongside. And she had provided them with a solution the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden would not have had on their own.

On the other…_Hello…! _How difficult would it have been to have a quick word earlier on? Like say…the Korcari Wilds or…Lothering or…Why leave it to the last minute? It wasn't as if their circumstances would ever have changed during the Blight. Well, not unless one of them died or…somehow managed to make more Grey Wardens. In which case, one of _them_ might have been just as good a candidate as Alistair and the poor kid could have gone to his royal bride a vir…a virg…a…vvvvv..._I can't even think it. Maybe I should ask Madam Sanga whether she's got any openings available. Oh damn. Or maybe I shouldn't mention the word 'opening' anywhere near a Brothel…_

"This isn't about…She Who Must Not Be Named…" Alistair tapped the top of the desk for attention. Calea's eyes reappeared, sheepishly curious. _Well, _she thought, _if it's not about Morrigan, it'll be about that little white lie I told about Leliana having the flutters for him…or about nicking Wynne's smalls and planting it in his tent…or maybe it's about the time when…_

"It's because…It's because I love you. Actually."

The bottom appeared to drop out of Calea's skull. She stared, struck speechless for the first time in her life at Alistair, realising that his flushed, earnest, too-young-to-die face was terribly, horribly, unbelievably, unfathomably…being honest at her.

And she hadn't seen it coming.

At all.

_Ancestors numb nuts…Do I feel dumb._

"Well, that's sort of…kind of…" she began, still struggling with her tongue and language and the fact that neither appeared to be connecting reliably at present. "I'm sorry," she still managed. "Is it Tuesday?"

"No..." Alistair told her, dragging out the 'oh' out in an amused drawl. He regarded her speculatively another moment, a chuckle bubbling in his chest. "I don't know why but...there's this incredibly funny joke about tall men and shor..._petite _women that comes to mind about now..." Her eyes snapped into focus and she cast him a rather _odd _look. Nervously, he cleared his throat, "But...in the interests of staying alive, I might leave that one for another day."

-oo-


	18. Epilogue

-oo-

**Epilogue**

"And this…goes _up…_"

Aerydd ran her bare fingers through the infant's scant crop of almost-hair, making it stand on end like a cock's comb. She knew it annoyed her sister in law, though she knew Meaghan would never actually say so; Fergus' second wife having nothing of the fire of his first, Antivan spouse. However, as wife number two hadn't been chosen for her fire and spirit, but for her _lineage, _who was she to argue?

"I'm so glad he has Fergus' nose," Aerydd commented, tweaking the subject of her praise affectionately. "No offence to my brother's wife, but I find her nose rather deplorable. It's too…too cute."

"Isn't that a good thing in a small child?" her companion raised his eyebrows. He continued to eye her closely a few more seconds. "Looking at you and your nephew, one would think you were a natural at this sort of thing…as opposed to an un-maternal, cold-blooded warrior Grey Warden."

Aerydd made a face at him, handing her nephew to the wet nurse; the two of them retiring to the far corner of the nursery, where the elf's own infant lay quietly sleeping. Aerydd sighed, her attention drawn to the elf child's bright head of orange hair and delicate, pale skin. Elven children were always incredibly beautiful, causing little Kendric Bryce Cousland to look like an over-boiled, skinned nug with a too-large nose in comparison. As it was best to escape before her brother's wife turned up expecting more compliments for such a fine Cousland heir, Aerydd beat a hasty retreat towards the door, not caring in particular whether her fellow Grey Warden chose to follow.

"This has nothing to do with being maternal or not," Aerydd tossed over her shoulder, hearing her companion's shuffling footsteps follow. "My nephew is a Cousland and we're a clannish lot. Familial affection is inherited."

"What," Warden Jowan began. "You've never, _ever_ been lured by the pitter patter of tiny feet?"

Aerydd shrugged. "I already have a mabari," she told him. "I think all I need do is commission a…let me see, a long sword would be appropriate I think," she added quite seriously. "In honour of my brother's little addition to the Cousland line."

A small choking noise emerged from the other Warden. "You have more swords, bows and shields than a Broodmother has…"

"Hah! I dare you to say that in front of my sister in law!"

"I was _about _to say 'tentacles'," Jowan defended himself wryly, with a roll of his eyes. "You've spent far too much time in Sigrun's company."

Aerydd responded by tossing the Mage Warden a sly look. "Jealous, are you?"

"Shut up."

The two stepped out into the courtyard, Aerydd closing her eyes to breathe in the scent of freedom and the open air, untainted by the smell of unemptied gazunders and sour milk. She wouldn't have even made the trip to Highever if Fergus hadn't sent the sternly-worded letter reminding her of the importance of family…_considering_ the last time he had looked, she still signed her name with '_Cousland'_.

"Think it's going to rain?" Jowan stood beside her under the wide archway, wrinkling his nose at the clouds looming overhead. Aerydd had been in the process of putting together a sarcastic comment in reply when a small commotion at the entrance to the stable courtyard announced the arrival of her brother…and a visitor.

"Andraste's fuzzy mittens!" she heard Jowan exclaim before moving forward eagerly. The two new arrivals paused; one to cast her an enquiring look, the other a lopsided old grin that she hadn't seen in five years. "Now you're a face I didn't expect to see again!" Jowan continued, extending his hand. Arms were clasped, greetings exchanged. Her brother's visitor turned next to her. He _looked _older, Aerydd thought. He'd put on a bit of weight, grown a bit of a beard, looking now far less like his half-brother than he had during the Blight.

_Warden Mabari…_

"Alis…" Aerydd began, when her gaze was abruptly arrested by the double-Griffon emblazoned on his chest piece.

"_You're _the new Commander of the Grey?" Jowan blurted, voicing Aerydd's bemused thoughts. "Duncan's replacement?" Turning back to his fellow Ferelden Grey Warden, he commented; "When they mentioned someone was coming from Jader, I assumed it would be Riordan."

"As did we all," Alistair – Warden _Commander _Alistair – grimaced.

"Not staying for supper, Pup?" Fergus took control of the conversation before it degenerated into a Grey Warden reunion. "Meaghan will be disappointed." Aerydd tossed her brother a _look. _She doubted that very much, seeing as her brother's sister treated her Grey Warden sister-in-law like the second coming of Andraste; with awe and fear.

Her Cousland chin jutted stubbornly though Aerydd knew there was little point in citing 'duty', because her canny brother would undoubtedly turn the word around to make her feel she was neglecting her _only _duty by returning to the Grey Wardens in Amaranthine. Trying to explain _why _she couldn't give up life as a Grey Warden during The Thaw had been enough of a battle. If the grumbling noblemen and women of the Landsmeet knew exactly how much Fergus Cousland resented the Order for 'stealing' his sister, perhaps there wouldn't be so much gossip about Wardens interfering in Ferelden politics. Which made – she realised with no little amount of interest – the half-brother of the King of Ferelden appointed the new Warden Commander of the Grey an unenviable position.

"And…" Fergus added, with a raised eyebrow that promised _fascinating _conversation on this very subject, "It's been a while since we've talked sister. I've been looking forward to catching up with you."

_Sister, _not 'Pup' again. _Oh yes. A very fascinating conversation indeed!_

Aerydd knew full well what Fergus was hinting at. Given that a successor to the Theirin line had as yet to be produced (after nearly fifteen years of marriage and counting), the Landsmeet were showing signs yet again of unrest. Add in some hints of Cailan having developed the same wasting disease that had plagued Queen Rowan and a few nasty run-ins between Queen Anora and a few of the more vocal members of the Landsmeet and Alistair's appearance in Ferelden appeared far too fortuitous. Cailan trying to shore up his position, Aerydd wondered? Or his way of putting his wife on notice? For all she knew, Cailan might even be using his half-brother as a distraction from the growing number of mutterings suggesting Fergus Cousland might make a suitable successor…

"Of course," Fergus added with the grace of the well-practised host, "Your fellow Grey Wardens are most welcome to stay."

"Thank you, Your Excellency." It was Alistair who spoke before Jowan or she could accept or decline the invitation. "It's most generous of you, but as I mentioned earlier, I am keen to meet my fellow Wardens." The look the new Warden Commander bestowed on Jowan was pointed. "Jowan, would you do me the honour of accompanying me? That is…if you can tear yourself away from the Teyrn's offer of hospitality?"

"I uh…" Jowan was no fool. A quick look between the Teyrn, Warden Commander and Aerydd and he began to back away. "Sure," he nodded. "It'll be a wrench, but I'm sure I can manage." Digging an elbow into Aerydd's side, he added, "Shall I let Master Wade know you'll be haunting his workshop soon?"

Aerydd sighed more audibly this time. She shrugged in defeat. For now. "Thank you, Jowan. I would appreciate it." A quick bow from both Wardens and the two had left for the stables, leaving Aerydd and her brother avoiding looking at each other directly.

"Just quietly…" Fergus began with a quick look over his shoulder, "Cailan is set to publicly endorse Alistair's appointment as Commander of the Grey."

Aerydd snorted. _So much for Grey Wardens staying out of Ferelden politics…_

"Nothing is ever simple, is it?" her brother added with a sigh of his own. Turning her back on the stables and courtyard, Aerydd looped an arm around one of her brother's own.

"When is it ever?" she asked. "And yes Fergus," she informed him firmly. "I _will _stay for supper."

-oo-

Dust swirled about their feet, rising higher as the lines of armoured soldiers passed through the cloud. The lead soldier raised his hand to call a halt; the sound of tramping boots dying to a soft shuffle, soon replaced by the screeching of metal as the door bolts were worked free and pushed back. Captain Gaveth's men strode forward, pushing the great metal doors open with barely a creak.

Alistair inhaled hard, his arm reaching out before the person ahead of him stepped through the doors to the Deep Roads.

"Ser…"

The Grey Warden ahead turned. Despite the obvious weariness and signs of age, there was still strength beneath the plate armour he so favoured, hair worn in that youthful style; long with thin braids keeping most of it off his face, though the once obsidian-black hair was now mostly salt and pepper.

"No goodbyes, Alistair," he reminded the other man. "I have waited far too long for this day. For the end."

"I know…I know…" Alistair ducked his head. He knew this day was inevitable. He'd seen the signs long before his heart would let him recognise them for what they were. The Maker knew he'd seen them enough times in Duncan during the Blight. It just felt…he had _hoped _that things would be different somehow; now that the Archdemon had been defeated along with its hordes of Darkspawn to bring this day closer.

_No_, his inner voice told him. There would always be hordes of Darkspawn, waiting…searching for the next old god to lead them again.

"I have faith in you Alistair," Loghain gripped the younger Warden's shoulder. "All you need is faith in yourself."

"It's not that, Loghain…" Alistair frowned. "It's just…" _Dammit! I am not going to go all emotional in front of a pack of Legion of the Dead soldiers…! _He raised his eyes. "Thank you," he told his mentor in a rush. "For everything you've done. For the Order; for me…"

"Yes, yes, yes…We've been through this already boy," Loghain sighed, reverting to the old nickname. Theirin had not disappointed him by rising to the challenge of command relatively quickly. The foundations had been laid; there was little that Loghain could do now. Alistair had been leading the Order on his own for the last two years anyway, with only passing assistance from himself. It was time to let go.

"And now I would appreciate it if you refrained from embarrassing yourself – and me - in front of Gaveth's men…" Loghain added in a bored voice that had Alistair's grin return...if somewhat reluctantly.

"Not even a bit of chest beating and throwing myself at you?" Alistair queried. Loghain rolled his eyes. "And here I brought my best sackcloth and everything."

Loghain sighed again. "Never let it be said…" he'd begun when a noise at the end of the tunnel had them reaching for their weaponry…except that is, the two Grey Wardens, who merely waited for the two slender figures to catch up to them. When he too realised who they were, Captain Gaveth tossed his axe onto his shoulder, turning his back on the Wardens with a roll of an eye. He then ordered his men into the Deep Roads. No doubt the Grey Warden would follow.

"Oh, I don't think I could have forgiven myself if I missed you!" One of new arrivals announced breathlessly, throwing herself at Loghain. Feet dangling, she hugged the grizzled old Grey Warden with great determination then dropped to the floor.

A single grey eyebrow rose on Loghain's forehead as he regarded the younger Wardens, his gaze ending at the youngest; one of the new recruits from the Denerim Alienage; a very flamboyant yet competent archer who he suspected had far more talents under her rather busy belt than with mere bow and arrow.

"Hmph," he snorted dryly. "One would think I was planning to depart on a long holiday instead of to my Calling…" He surveyed them all as a forbearing uncle would, resigning himself to the expected pranks of his young relatives. "Forgive me if no postcards are forthcoming."

"Aw…Loghain…!" Ella's mouth turned downwards. "It's just…We wanted to say…"

"Take care, make sure my stomach-warmer is secure and 'don't drink the local water'?" Loghain suggested in the ensuing silence. He patted the top of the Mage's head, his grave expression returning. "I _know_, Majella…"

One last, cool nod at the now Warden Commander of the Order of the Grey and Loghain turned, passing swiftly under the heavy stone beams to join Captain Gaveth and the Legion of the Dead. The doors closed all too quickly after he had gone, the resounding boom echoing from wall to wall until it too was swallowed by the silence. After a while the only noise in the long tunnel was the soft sound of their breathing, the odd scratching of a deepstalker behind a crumbled wall and the nervous tapping of the junior Grey Warden's foot. Then, even she slowly backed away, leaving the two senior Wardens on their own.

Alistair tossed a look over her shoulder, eyebrows crooking. _What odd coloured hair that girl has…_

"You alright?"

Alistair found Ella's hand slipping into his, with a reassuring squeeze.

"I thought you were in the Free Marches?" he asked, not that he wasn't happy about the fact that she wasn't. Or…not unhappy because she was…? _Let's just say I'm really, really happy that she's here…_

"I couldn't let you be on your own," she told him simply. "Not when I heard."

Folding her into an embrace, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, breathing in that particularly Magey scent that he loved so much. _Elfroot _and cinnabar mixed with Deep Roads dust and sea water. She sighed into his chest, warm breath fogging the surface of his armour before dissipating into the cool, dry air.

"How long have you known?" she asked, wriggling in closer. "About Loghain?"

Alistair grimaced, his gaze travelling to the great iron doors. "Months," he murmured. "He hid it pretty well, but a man of his age I suppose…"

Majella chuckled, causing the metal of his chest plate to vibrate slightly. "He never did forgive Duncan for dying before he did. I think if he could have gone to the Deep Roads sooner, he would have." She tipped her face upwards, working an arm out from behind him so she could caress the line of his jaw with a finger. "Especially after Anora…"

Both Wardens looked back at the entrance to the Deep Road now. _No…_Alistair conceded again. He couldn't begrudge Loghain this death. The Warden's death. Loghain had been fighting for most of his life adult life it seemed. It must have been…_wearying_ to always be a soldier, watching all of one's fellow warriors die to be left behind. And Loghain had few of his contemporaries alive today, if any. The Blight had made sure of that.

_And I hope when it's my turn…_

"You know…" Alistair said suddenly, causing Ella to startle a little. "Tapsters isn't far…Maybe we should…"

Ella said nothing for a while, scanning his face intently before simply deciding to rise to the challenge he'd just laid down. "Sounds like a good idea," she nodded in agreement, adding; "Trust the dwarves to locate an inn near the Deep Roads entry."

"Well," dragging out the 'e' in his usual way, the two strode uphill towards the Commons. "It's quite clever, when you think about it. After a few battles with Darkspawn, dwarven ale starts to smell – and taste – good."

"You're saying there's no such thing as 'good' dwarven ale?" Ella peeked up at him with a soft laugh. "In a place where you can be overheard by hundreds of dwarves?"

Sputtering, he attempted to defend himself. In this way conversation continued to flow; meaningless, meandering and random. Anything to distract themselves from the last image of their old mentor and friend setting off into the Deep Roads; to keep them from thinking about the fact that they were not likely to see him again. Or that the further away they travelled from each other their connection through the Taint lessened. Alistair wasn't too sure which he preferred; to know the point at which the Old Man met his Maker…or to just assume that he had. He only knew that he was glad that Loghain would not be on his own, though he did wish he could have been accompanied by another Grey Warden…

He glanced down at Ella. Best not tell her he'd volunteered for the job…_She'd kill me for a start…And then the pain would _really _begin._

The familiar fizz of the Taint told them there were more Grey Wardens in the tavern. While Ella pushed open the door and went inside, Alistair lingered at the entrance; mustering his thoughts for more Warden Commander-y ones. He could pick his Wardens out from the rest of the crowd; their rag-tag collection of humans, dwarves and elves. Even if there weren't the obvious differences with the usual sort that patronised Orzammar's rowdiest establishment outside the Assembly, he'd still recognise them. All of them.

He wasn't too sure how long he stood at the top of the steps, looking down into the pit of drunken rowdiness, stale cooking smoke, sweat and sour ale, the thought of being _social _unappealing. Perhaps if he continued on to their apartments, quietly…to wait out the inevitable, he wouldn't be missed? He'd begun to turn when a cheer went up…His attention lured back to the occupants of the tavern, he discovered the increase in noise was due to his fellow Senior Warden.

Ella had vaulted onto a table in the centre of the group to the approval of all. Alistair frowned, puzzled at her impromptu performance. She had unhitched her Mage staff, twirling it above her head. Striking a dramatic pose she shot a bolt of electricity into the beams, making the thick air thunder. Thinking he should perhaps intervene, he started forward when she bellowed: "_Grey Wardens_! Have I told you all how handsome you are?"

Alistair stopped mid-step, blinking. Meanwhile another round of cheers erupted around Ella's feet, other customers now drawn to the spectacle.

"And beautiful!" Ella added for the benefit of the female contingent; amid roars of enthusiastic agreement. As if by magic, a tankard of frothy ale appeared in her hand. She angled it in Alistair's direction with a wink and a smile. Understanding perfectly what she was trying to do, he worked his way quietly through the crowd, settling into a shadowy, quiet corner by an ale barrel.

"Yeaaaaaahhh...!" he heard Ella to more cheers and applause. Alistair found himself embracing the moment; allowing it to warm him all the way to his chilled insides. His Grey Wardens…_Loghain and Duncan's _Grey Wardens…Ferelden's best from all corners of the country continued to lap up Ella's praise.

"Order of the Grey!" Ella bellowed. "You're all a bunch of bloody gorgeous specimens!"

Laughter emerged…Alistair realised it was his laughter he heard; an unexpected sound. But he couldn't not agree with her statement. Yes they were. Beautiful, dedicated, wonderful_…_just like his Warden Mage.

-oo-

Calea kicked open the door, her tired legs carrying her faithfully as far as the bed before dropping her face first into it. Spreadeagled with her feet dangling off the edge, she remained motionless, pondering the day's events. _Ancestors, my face hurts…_If she never had to smile at anyone again she would be a happy woman. Why was politics so much more tiring than battling a thousand Darkspawn? By the Stone, some of those nobles had _looked _like Darkspawn. Especially that Bann Esmerelle fellow…woman. She'd seen rotting Hurlock corpses with less sour expressions.

She heard the door open and close softly, then the familiar sound of her husband's footsteps. A metallic clatter followed as he leaned his walking stick against the bedside table; the special one he used when he needed to fill the role of both monarch and Grey Warden. It had a griffon's head at one end and a very pointy bit at the other…A few moments later, the bed dipped, making her roll slightly to the right. _Ah…now I can actually breathe…_

After a while, he cleared his throat. "Tough day at the office, dear?" he asked.

Silence.

"That bad, huh?" The bed wobbled again. "Still…I think you did well, all things considered."

Again, silence.

"Though to be honest," he continued, "I'm not sure threatening Bann Coerlic with the potato scallops was something I would have done."

The wall of silence remained intact. Alistair went on unperturbed.

"…and then offering to dangle him out of the window by his ankles over a pit of angry, ravenous, wild mabari…"

_Nothing._

"When everyone knows there's no such thing as a 'wild' mabari…I mean, where would you find one? Unless you can convince one in the royal kennels to put a lampshade on its head, go on a drunken rage and pee on the shrubberies…or the Grand Cleric's ceremonial vestments."

King Alistair paused for a reaction. He could wait all day; all week if he had to. Waiting was what he did best. After all, he had waited an entire year before his fellow Warden, best friend and Blight companion realised how much she needed to marry him. "Huh," he added thoughtfully. "In fact, I think I'd _pay _to see that."

His strategy began to show signs it was working. A single eye peeked out above an arm; balefully.

Calea shifted, now showing both eyes. He smiled. _Ah…there's the rest of her! Ooh, still not happy…_"Only don't tell Teagan I said so," he said. "You know how he likes to go on about how many hairs he has left and how we're the cause of his inability to retain what little he has left. Personally, I think he makes quite an attractive looking bald man. It's that peak on the top of his head. It makes him look like a shark gliding through the waters when he's moving through a crowd in the Landsmeet Chambers. I wouldn't be able to pick him out if he didn't…It's that window of opportunity for escape that I treasure so much…"

A sigh emerged. At mention of the long-suffering Chancellor Teagan Guerrin, Calea redirected her gaze to the coverlet, picking at a loose thread in the pattern. "And…with that many children, I think _I'd _have lost most of my hair by now too," Alistair commented…to another sigh from his Princess Consort. "They're like a litter of little mabari…I can't tell them apart they all look the same. Any more and he'll need to have his own country to house them all…"

Clearing his throat, Alistair directed his gaze to the opposite wall. "Speaking of mabari…" he began slowly. "Just asking…you wouldn't have trained our little pride and joy to hump Arl Wulffe's leg every time he mentions the word 'Amaranthine' did you?"

Calea snorted; the closest she'd come to actual conversation since he'd entered the room.

"I understand Baloo's dedication to the Grey Wardens," Alistair waved a hand in the air. "And I know he gets a tad…sensitive when he thinks the Order's being insulted but…think I should have a word with him?"

Her head turned sharply in his direction, eyebrows drawn downwards in a clear expression of her opinion of _that _idea_. Well_…true, the King of Ferelden having a bit of a heart to heart with the Royal Mabari about diplomacy would be amusing. Heck, why not bring it up as a discussion for the next Landsmeet? It would make a nice change from talk about his continuing inability to provide a royal heir. Not that he didn't already have some kind of…plan in mind. He hadn't spent years in Calea's canny political company without learning a few tricks of his own.

Thumping the bed with the flat of her palm, Calea propped herself up. "It'll be fine Alistair," she told him; her voice sounding as tired as she looked. His worry increased. "I'll be taking him with me when I return to Vigil's Keep tomorrow, so Arl Wulffe – and his leg – can rest at ease."

"Bu…" Alistair's face had fallen at this piece of news. Had he gotten his dates wrong? Overslept somewhere and missed the passing of a few days? "That was…You're leaving tomorrow?" he asked, feeling the too familiar, hollow feeling of loneliness begin to creep up on him. "I was hoping you'd be here for a bit longer…"

Calea didn't meet his eyes as she continued to rise, tucking her feet under her and scraping at an invisible bit of fluff on the bedclothes with a finger nail.

"Well…" Alistair murmured, silence descending in a thick curtain between them.

Calea grimaced, too tired to explain how _exhausted _she was, dividing her time between Amaranthine with the Grey Wardens…Orzammar; with the Assembly and constantly knocking heads with her bronto's arse of a brother…and Denerim, _urgh_…Not to mention the most aggressive sewing circle she'd ever had the displeasure to be a part of…_and anyway, why didn't humans just hire someone to do all of that for them?_ Honestly, humans had no concept of the proper division of labour. Fereldans were so backward when it came to the lower classes, but could she convince them they'd gotten it wrong? No, well and it was _different _in the Landsmeet too, wasn't it? Threaten some poo-faced noble with disembowelment or facial rearrangement and you might as well recall the Archdemon for another go at eating the entire country.

And…invariably it was Alistair who ended up bearing the brunt of her dwarven style of diplomacy. _The bunch of deepstalker spawn…_Removing herself always seemed easier on him…Mostly…

"Alistair, I'm sor…"

"I guess wearing more than the one hat stretches you a little thin," he interrupted, scratching the side of his nose. "I'm sorry Calea…" He captured one of her hands in his. Settling it in his lap he began kneading her sword calluses with his fingers. Calea gave her head a brisk shake. Like Hullaballoo when scratched in the right spot behind his ear, her eyelids had begun to droop, her mind to wander. She needed to stay _focussed. _Resolute. Yes, she was abandoning Alistair. _Alright, _she admitted she was running away to join the Grey Warden circus…but if she didn't kill something – or someone – soon, she'd have to resort to murder.

Or cake.

And _that _was never a good idea.

"I know it's difficult…and unfair that you have to bear the load of Commander of the Grey all by yourself…" he continued. Calea attempted to cast him a sharp look, but he'd spun her around, working his way up her arms to her shoulders, barely giving her a chance to check his expression. "You hardly have any time to yourself, much less…you know, _couple_ time..."

_Couple time…?_ Where was he going with this? If he wanted a bit of a tumble before she left, she would be the last person to object, but…_something _else was up here. _No pun intended…_

"I wish I could help. Somehow…" Alistair sighed. "Share the load…"

She was finding it increasingly difficult to think straight. His breath tickling the hairs behind her left ear was rendering her determination to leave – and soon - into a pathetic pool of warm mush. A bit like her brain at this moment. What was he trying to…? _Oh, guhhh…! _Calea slapped her thighs with her hands sharply. The moment interrupted, she scooted to the other end of the bed to relative safety and in full view of his unrepentant, cheeky grin.

Narrowing her eyes, she pointed an accusing finger at him, unable to think of anything else to say except a hoarse, _"You…"_

"_Me…_" he mimicked her tone of voice.

Calea crossed her arms. She pouted. _I have taught you too well, you spiky-haired, one-legged…_"You, you, you manipulative…_manipulator_!" she managed eventually. "Fine! I will stay another day." _And that's my final offer. _

"Two weeks," he countered cheerfully.

_Didn't I say that was my final offer? _"One!"

"One and a half!" Alistair wiggled his eyebrows. "And I'll even throw in cake."

"Bastard," she accused him. "You…cake-wielding bastard."

"_Plum _cake," he added, his all-too-victorious grin making her want to thump him…Or kill a human noble. "With _custard…_"

_Custard…! _"You are evil," Calea stated, "If only the Landsmeet knew the power you wielded…And remind me again why I was never able to convince you to marry Leliana…?"

"Because she was crazy and I didn't want the next King or Queen of Ferelden after me to be a drooling lunatic," he replied easily. "Besides...I know you secretly adored me. I mean look at me: how could anyone resist this?" He made a sweeping motion at himself; metal leg, scars, bad haircut and all. Calea rolled her eyes. There was little to do except concede defeat.

"Who indeed?" she sighed. "Especially when you come with cake."

"Plum cake, don't forget!"

_Urrhhh…! _Another week and a half of face ache by forcing it to smile at people she'd rather defenestrate…_and I must find a way to remove those nails out of the Landsmeet windows sometime…Chancellor Teagan really overreacted on that one_…with work building up fit to explode in Orzammar and Amaranthine and…_Ancestors numb nuts. Can I do all of that? I can't do all of that. I don't have enough heads…and arms and…everything else…_

"You're changing your mind, aren't you," Alistair stated softly, his smile slipping a little.

"Of course not!" she denied hastily. "I would never…Not in a…You don't believe a single word I'm saying right now do you?" He shook his head. Calea pouted. "Damn. When did you get so smart?"

"When I married you."

She waggled a finger at him. "Ooh…ooh! You're _good_…" _And I should have seen that coming…_

"Anyway," he added, even more seriously. "You know it won't be for much longer."

A chill ran through her. _What did he mean…? _"Much longer?" she repeated. "What the nug droppings do you mean 'won't be for much longer'?" _The…the Calling…?_ No. She hadn't noticed an increase in nightmares, he'd been looking relatively well…There were days when he'd need to spend more time than usual in the training yard, but not recently…Not…

"You might have heard some rumours," Alistair broke into her panicked thoughts. "I suppose I might as well come clean. I've been talking to Fergus and Alfstanna about the succession. Quietly of course."

_Oh…_"I see." It was difficult to keep the relief out of her voice. Alistair threw her an enquiring look. "I thought it might be…" She made a face at him. "Never mind."

"Calea…"

"_Alistair._"

He extended his arm. Sliding across, she tucked herself into his side. "I am truly sorry that I can't share more of your duties," he told her sincerely, with a small frown.

"Yeah," Calea shrugged. "But as Orzammar is unlikely to switch me out for a human Paragon, not much you can do there…And…I don't know whether you've noticed," she added in a whispered aside, "but _you're_ a bit busy running a country right now." _And…ah, darn it. _"Look," she told him reasonably. "I'm not completely indispensable at Vigil's Keep. Nate is there and so is that chicken-feather-wearing Mage the Templars keep inviting to their sword and stake nights. Failing that, there's also Dead Guy…"

"Dead Guy?"

"Justice…or affectionately, 'Just Pieces'...Oh, hey you haven't met re-animated Orlesian Grey Warden have you? I must introduce you next time you're there. Just don't stand downwind of him. Or offer to take his hand…" she grimaced. "He might take you literally. _Anyway_, Nathaniel's capable and so is…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Look, we can…we can discuss more details over the next couple of weeks or so…" _I suppose…And he had better not renege on his promises of cake either…!_

He looked down at her in growing happy surprise. "A couple of weeks? Not one and a half?"

"Yeah…" she poked him hard in his good leg. "So don't get cocky Ser King. I'm exercising my right to change my mind. If you don't watch yourself, I'll make it a _month_."

"Oh, I'll be careful, yes ma'am!" he assured her, already thinking – she was sure – of ways to misbehave enough to keep her here longer than a month. It would certainly be a nice change from serious, kingly Alistair…She'd been missing_ him_.

"Good," she said with an acknowledging nod of her head. After a minute she held out a hand towards him, palm upwards. "Now," she said with an expectant twinkle in her eye. "Where's my _cake_?"

-oo-

Dropping his pack to the ground, Alistair backed into the cot, falling backwards with a tired grunt. It was good to be _home _again, with a bed, a bath and the promise of a hot, Warden-sized meal later. Being on the run with Zevran had felt too much like it did during the Blight; escaping from one place to head into danger the next. But a promise was a promise. He might have spared Zevran's life once, but the ex-Crow had saved _his _life more than once, including making sure he and the surviving Grey Wardens escaped Ferelden – and Queen Anora's assassins – in one piece.

Helping Zevran take care of his own little 'problem' had been a small price to pay.

Not to mention…as some of those Antivan Crows had had a contract to dispose of 'Maric's bastard', eliminating them first was actually doing him a favour. And Maker, Alistair hoped that was the last of them. Killing Darkspawn had been easy. Something that just came at you with a bit of sharpened metal didn't require a great deal of thinking. _Antivan Crows _on the other hand, were _sneaky. _They'd turn up when you thought you were safe. Even a simple meal at a friendly tavern became a potentially life-threatening situation. Alistair had gotten lots of practice being unpopular and disliked during the Blight, but the Crows were nothing if not persistent. If the entire situation hadn't become slightly comical, he might have taken it personally…Well. He knew it _was. _Queen Anora saw him as a threat to her rule, never mind the fact that he couldn't care less about who was on the throne…

Which wasn't exactly true. He did care who was in charge. He didn't know Anora that well. They'd never been formally _introduced _so his knowledge of Cailan's widow had been gained through other sources. What he had learned however was that she was not a great improvement over her father post-Blight. He'd heard of riots, food shortages, the Royal Army being turned into nothing more than city guards just to keep a lid on day to day banditry. Fereldans abandoned the country in their hundreds, unhappy with the slow progress in reclaiming the land and the rise of unscrupulous persons in charge of food distribution. Worse, Alistair had heard very ugly rumours of slave trades operating out of the Alienages, as if the plight of city elves weren't bad enough already.

Anora might have been an efficient administrator during a time of peace and prosperity, but in the face of adversity and suffering, her iron will to control did not work particularly well. Nor did her staunch refusal to establish her own line.

Despite his own thoughts Alistair was glad to be out of it. Grey Wardens had no business interfering in politics. It had been bad enough sweeping the cobwebs out of Antiva. _Fun though_, Alistair thought, tugging at the buckles in his gauntlets before throwing them and his gloves onto the bed. His mind made up to make an effort meant the rest of his armour soon followed. Tomorrow he'd wear his Warden set again.

_Did I mention it was good to be home?_

He was in the process of struggling out of his mail shirt when a knock sounded on the door. Dropping it back down, he went to answer…to be greeted by the sunniest smile he'd seen since the last Antiva sunrise.

"Helloo!" She was tall for an elf, with flowing orange hair – shaved right down to her scalp at the sides – tied into a ponytail at her neck. What arrested his attention the most however were her eyes. They were…purple. No, not purple…_amethyst, _sparkling with humour and…Alistair realised she was waving a hand in front of his face.

"Helloo!" she called again. "Anyone home? Anyone at all?"

She was a Grey Warden? _Wow…she's a Grey Warden…Wait. _What did she mean by 'anyone home?'

"Did you want something?" Alistair asked, feeling slightly outmanoeuvred.

"Me?" she grinned at him. "Oh no." _Oh, perfect. _"The Senior Warden's looking for you though. And I'm here to deliver the message." She cocked her head to the side, looking like a little bird. It reminded him strangely of someone else…Someone he hadn't really thought of in the last few years. She'd been an elf too. Dalish. And her hair had been silver as had her eyes.

She'd also been a great deal less…_happy _than this woman here_. _

"Did you really defeat the Archdemon in Ferelden?" the elf asked, the abrupt question throwing Alistair off balance a little.

"I…It was my fellow Grey Warden, not…"

"Brilliant…" she breathed, her eyes wide. "Bloody brilliant…Anyway." As though waking up from perky sleep, she snapped to attention, moving aside from the door. "You'd better head down. Oh, were you getting undressed? I beg your pardon. Best go put on something pretty. Blue would be your colour. Go well with your grey eyes."

"My eyes are brown."

"Are they? Oh! So they are! Will you look at that? Okay! Gotta go now! Just realised I might have left my socks too close to the fire. See you around…or a-square or…if you want; a-triangle! Get it? A-round, a-square, a-trian…You're not very good at laughing are you?" As quickly as she had appeared, she had gone, skipping down the brightly lit stone corridor, her orange pony-tail swinging from side to side.

In her wake Alistair blinked, trying to catch his breath. He'd barely spoken to her or even moved but the encounter had left him more exhausted than clearing out several warehouses of assassins. He gave his head a shake, completed the removal of the last of his sweaty armour…a quick wash and change into slightly cleaner clothes and he felt ready to face the Senior Warden.

Standing before her door, he still took the time to smooth down his tunic, the roughened skin on his hands catching on the embroidered rearing Griffon on the front. _Too much,_ he wondered briefly? Was he trying too hard? _Here I am, a Grey Warden again woopty-hoop-diddly-do!_

_Oh yeah. Definitely trying too hard…_

He opened the door, stepped inside, realising the Senior Warden wasn't alone…"Oh there you are," the Senior Warden had her back turned to him, busy at her writing desk. "I was wondering how long you were going to stand outside primping."

"I wasn't…" Alistair caught himself in time. Clearing his throat, he turned to the other Grey Warden in the room, a genuine smile on his face. "Riordan! I thought you were back in Jader."

The old Grey Warden had gone even greyer since the two had parted ways in the Free Marches. He'd become more lined and there were deep, dark circles around the man's once clear blue eyes.

"Alistair…" Riordan gripped the younger Warden's shoulder affectionately. "I hear you have been keeping busy…in between continuing to vanquish Darkspawn."

Alistair grinned. "I try to keep out of mischief."

"Oh? Keeping out," Riordan asked wryly. "Or _attracting_ mischief?"

"With that charming assassin in tow?" The Senior Warden joined their conversation bearing goblets of steaming mulled wine for the two of them. "No doubt your trail of destruction was littered with broken hearts and swooning damsels. The man has stamina, I'll give him that. Pity he wouldn't agree to be made a Grey Warden."

"Where is Zevran?" Riordan inquired.

"Enjoying his new role as Guild Master," Alistair informed them both. "I invited him back to Weisshaupt, but he said he preferred to remain in Antiva. Too cold here apparently."

"Pity…" the Senior Warden commented in a mysterious tone that had both Alistair and Riordan raising their eyebrows at her. "Well," she told them with an enigmatic smile. "I did say he was charming…" She returned to her desk. Alistair turned back to Riordan but did not get a chance to speak, the Senior Warden having thrust a small cloth sack at him.

"This arrived from Ferelden while you were gone, Alistair, "she told him. "Along with a letter inviting the Grey Wardens to return."

"_What?_" Alistair and Riordan exclaimed together.

Riordan however was the only one who seemed pleased by this development. "Well, that is good news." He turned to Alistair. "Surely?"

"Why?" Alistair snorted. "Has Queen Anora finished building her gilt and jewel-encrusted gibbet to hang me from?" he drawled sarcastically. "Now that she's run out of assassins to send after me?"

"It appears," Riordan cleared his throat, "that you are behind times."

"When have I ever been in front?" Alistair quipped.

"In that case, allow me to inform you…" Riordan turned back to the Senior Warden. "Unless you would rather…?" The Senior Warden waved her hand for him to proceed, perching herself on the edge of her desk, her swinging legs making her look like a little girl and not an experienced Grey Warden with more than twice as many years under her belt as Alistair. Meanwhile, Riordan pulled up a chair, sinking into it with a sigh.

"Anora," he told Alistair. "Is no longer Queen of Ferelden."

"Slipped on a pool of her own bile and broke her neck did she?" Alistair commented bitterly, earning him a round of disapproving tongue clucking from the Senior Warden.

"Worse perhaps," Riordan continued. "Like her father she incited civil war," he said. "Unfortunately for her, unlike her father she did not win. The former Teyrn of Highever I believe is now the King of Ferelden and it is he and the new…" He stretched an arm behind the Senior Warden, seeking a particular roll of parchment. From this he read out a list of names and titles that were vaguely familiar to Alistair. There was only one that he could claim some knowledge of: Teagan Guerrin, now Teyrn of Gwaren and one of the signatories of the letter in Riordan's hand.

When he had finished reading, Riordan looked up. Alistair was now standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames with a thoughtful expression.

"You think this might be a trap?" Riordan asked. "I have…some knowledge of the Couslands. They have stewarded their own lands with a fair hand and were popular for it."

Alistair nodded. "And I trust Teagan," he murmured. "Taught me how to swim."

"And the parcel they sent?" the Senior Warden prompted. "Not a gift of poisonous humbugs, I suppose?"

Placing his goblet of untouched wine on the mantel, Alistair pulled the strings of the small sack and emptied its contents into the palm of his hand…It was a single arrowhead and a locket of some kind.

"Dalish, I believe?" Riordan commented, moving in for a closer look at the arrowhead. "I am no expert, but I remember admiring – what was her name again? – her skill in archery. The arrow heads she used were of a particular shape and weight. Like the one in your hand. Do you think this could have belonged to her?"

Alistair shrugged, half listening. His attention was fully occupied by the locket in his hand. Had Teagan found this and sent it to him? Would Teagan have even known it belonged to him? Did anyone besides himself and the late Arl Eamon know how important it was? It couldn't have been Moppet. There would have been no reason for her to keep something like this, even if anything on her survived the blast of magical fire that swept across the top of Fort Drakon when the Archdemon died. Yet, here it was. He was sure of it. His mother's locket. The only thing he had had of his parent; carefully pieced back together.

"It's possible," the Senior Warden too, jumped down from her perch to have a look at Alistair's little 'treasures'. "The Dalish don't give up their craft to just anyone, and how many of the _Elvenhan_ Wanderers were on the top of Fort Drakon?"

"Just the one," Riordan replied, looking towards Alistair again.

"Mahariel," Alistair told him. "Her name was Moppet Mahariel."

"Well…" the Senior Warden raised herself up on tip toes for a better look. "And no one's been able to locate her clan to let them know her contribution to this world; to the Grey Wardens and" she continued. "I hear King Fergus is a little more tolerant of us knife-ears. Perhaps the clan will return to Ferelden now that he's in charge." She looked towards Alistair. "You will go, won't you Warden Alistair?"

"Uh?" Alistair's fingers closed around the locket and arrow head to find both older Wardens casting him an expectant look. "I…Is that an order?"

The Senior Warden shrugged. "As the new Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, it might well be."

"_What_?"

"You heard what I said." The Senior Warden sang, inclining her goblet towards him. "Nothing wrong with your hearing, last time I yelled at you. King Fergus specifically stated we were to send you, if you were still alive. Seeing as you are still alive – no thanks to your little exploits in Antiva and abroad – the First Warden has agreed to send you." She smirked at him over the edge of her goblet. "Huh. It's about time you concentrated on being a Grey Warden, rather than just some Hero for Hire."

"Well I…" Alistair looked to Riordan, a plea in his eyes. "Wouldn't an older Warden be more appropriate?" he asked.

Riordan extended his hand. He placed it on Alistair's shoulder. "No, my friend. It is too late for me I am afraid. I would have liked to come with you, to see my homeland once more in kinder hands, but I leave for the Deep Roads. Soon."

"I…see."

"Take that new Warden with you," the Senior Warden suggested. "That crazy elf with the strange hair."

"Aren't you all?" Riordan commented dryly.

"Make a list of any others you want with you," the Senior Warden continued, ignoring Riordan's jibe. "I'll review it in the morning. The sooner the Grey Wardens regain a foothold in Ferelden, the better."

Riordan raised his goblet, followed by the Senior Warden. "To the Grey Wardens of Ferelden," he proposed. "May they be blessed with many years of Darkspawn slaying."

"Oh…wonderful," Alistair sighed, picking up his goblet in acknowledgement anyway because after all this time, perhaps it might well be.

-oo-

"This is…nice…"

"Mm."

"Look at this." She pushed up her sleeve to show him. It was another tattoo; a beautifully rendered picture of a mabari…chewing on what looked like an Ogre's head. "Had it done last week."

"Nice. Here…" He unbuckled his gauntlet and pulled down his glove to reveal the initials 'G' and 'W' against a rearing griffon.

"Ooh…that's your third one isn't it? I like it!"

"Thought you might."

"I do."

"Mm."

"Mm-hm…"

She extended her toe – their boots had been thrown off carelessly behind them – to poke at a bit of floating detritus in the river. It was a sunny day and so cloaks, heavy armour and leather jerkins had been discarded too for their cooler cloth under-tunics. Captain Kylon had given him – the both of them – a disapproving look when they had begun to strip down, but had remained silent…and vigilant as ever. Who was to argue with the King of Ferelden and the Commander of the Grey after all? Especially when weaponry remained attached to both of these personages in full and clear view of passersby.

"Do you think…"

Alistair looked over at his companion. She chewed nervously on her lower lip, making her piercings dance; the metal clicking on her teeth audibly. He rather liked that Deepstalker claw hanging there. She'd painted it pink, the silverite at the end glinting blindingly in the Ferelden summer sun. He noticed she had dressed down today. A few pierce holes in her slender ears had been left empty and her 'official' armour; the one with the double-griffons embossed across the front had been swapped for plain black leather, worked with more silverite. The black had made her already-pale skin appear even more ghostly, so he was glad when she cast it off. In the cream tunic she _glowed _bright as the sun, her spiky orange hair like flames.

Alistair extended an arm, dropping it around her shoulders. "They'll be fine," he assured her. "It's not the first time they've spoken. And…Zevran promised to be at his most charming."

"Charming…"

"Charming, yes. Why?" Alistair bent his hand to ruffle her hair. "Does that worry you?"

"Oh no. No, no, no, no…It's…They're taking an awfully long time," she told him. "Don't you think they're taking an awfully long time? Is that unusual do you think? It is, isn't it?"

"I don't know…" Alistair told her as honestly as he could. "I didn't have to spend this long asking _my _father in law for my wife's hand."

"Well," Talion wrinkled her nose. "Give him credit. He was dead at the time."

"Oh yeah. Well spotted."

"Cheeky."

"Always."

"But mine isn't," Talion pointed out helpfully.

"Cheeky?"

"No. Dead."

"No," Alistair nodded. "That he is not." _A little detail that I am very, very glad of, _Alistair added to himself.

"I'm so glad he isn't," Talion agreed with her companion's inner monologue, though she had no idea she was doing so. Rotating both feet at the ankles, she added, "His leg won't be the same he reckons. Gives him trouble on rainy nights…but says now he knows when it's going to rain before it does, so I suppose that's a good thing. In the end."

Alistair thought finding out if it was going to rain by just looking outside might be less inconvenient, but he didn't want to spoil the mood. "Lucky," he nodded.

"Mm."

"Uh huh."

"Um…"

"Yes?" Alistair asked.

"Mrs King Alistair doesn't mind you being here, does she?" Talion asked, in between chewing on that bottom lip again. "I mean out here, instead of back at the castle doing Kingly stuff? Will you get into trouble for coming home with a dirty bottom or anything? You aren't playing hooky again? Zev told me she got a bit cross that last time we went on the cheese run."

"Only because we didn't bring her back any," Alistair confided. "Who knew Anora was such a cheese hound?"

"She really didn't mind?"

"Only when I hid the Roquefort," he assured her. "Then she got all cheese nasty and demanded I hand over all triple cream camembert."

Talion gave him a keen look of concern. "Do…do you care for her?" she asked him. "Anora?"

Alistair leant back, staring up into the never ending blue of the sky. The same colour as his wife's eyes. "Ah…she's not so bad," he smiled, "when you get to know her. Splendid taste in cheese…great hair…and not a big fan of fancy shoes. What's not to like really?"

"But…" He knew it wasn't the answer she had been looking for.

"And…she's ticklish."

Talion's eyes widened in shock. "_No…!"_

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Wow."

"I know, right? Zevran's feather trick works really…ahem. Best not talk too much about that one. Anyway…"

"Anyway?"

"Waiting."

"Hm."

"Ooh, I think I see movement!" Alistair had been right; which saved him a great deal of trouble answering any potentially awkward and embarrassing questions about what may or may not have been about his love life. The door to the narrow house across the bridge had opened. Two men stepped out into the sunshine; one with hair of silver, the other golden-haired. Talion however, remained seated on the edge of the riverbank, continuing to chew her lip even more furiously than before. Alistair nudged her with his elbow.

"You aren't going over there?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I think they might be doing man stuff. I don't want to interrupt…" At the moment she finished her sentence, the younger of the two men turned in their direction. The thumbs-up he offered was accompanied by a wide, smirking grin. Surreptitiously, Alistair returned the gesture, knowing full-well it had been for his benefit, not Talion's. Things – predictably – had gone as well as they had hoped. There had been some concern over Zevran's connection to the Antivan Crows but his 'official' position on the King's staff must surely override that little detail. Alistair was grateful to Anora for suggesting that appointment.

Alistair grinned to himself. She would never admit it, but his Queen was a bit of a romantic softie. It was quite…adorable actually, which in no way meant he would ever let his guard down around her. Anora was still a tough bit of leather when she wanted to be and she could still freeze a room full of nobles with a single look. It was a gaze employed frequently when they had first married…owing to the fact that he not only had proclaimed himself King, stripped her title down to a puny 'queen consort' but had – um – _executed_ her father. _But, _Alistair had come with a secret weapon. A weapon passed from Grey Warden to Grey Warden.

_Tabris Hug._

No ice queen could withstand it, especially when employed as persistently and consistently as he had. Well, that and telling her in no uncertain terms that if he woke to find a dagger plunged into his heart, he would come back to haunt her cheese larder and send rats to eat everything in it before she did.

Oddly, that last threat had been rather effective.

The older of the two men across the bridge was now making a beckoning gesture towards them. Talion went rigid, clutching the wood of the river wall so tightly her knuckles turned bone-white.

"I should…go?" she asked Alistair in a hoarse whisper.

"You should go," he agreed.

"I should go."

"Go on then."

"Okay." As she remained seated, Alistair decided he should help. He stood. Grasping her by the shoulders, he lifted her to her feet then gave her a gentle push towards the bridge. She began walking mechanically, like one of those wind-up golems the dwarves sold in the Denerim market, arms straight by her sides, her knees stiff and unbending. It was only after she'd joined the two elven men and her father had embraced her did she relax, turning back to Alistair with a surprised, but sunny smile on her face that had him laughing out loud. He sent them a salute; he'd join them later for more formal congratulations. For now it would be just the three of them. He turned back to face his Guard Captain to find Kylon had instructed his men to retrieve the King's – and Commander of the Grey's - things. Kylon himself approached him, ducking when a dark object swooped unexpectedly low over them.

Hands still over his head, Kylon frowned at the creature; who'd taken up residence on the bridge, berating them both in a mocking caw.

"You sure about those things your Majesty?" Kylon asked, glaring at the crow.

Alistair cocked his head at the bird. Crows had become something of a…lucky symbol for him. There were the Antivan kind for a start and a little before that, the Apostate, _shape-shifting _kind…He knew She was around, making sure her investment was being taken care of. Alistair had made sure to extract that particular promise the night before the last three Grey Wardens in Ferelden were set to face the Archdemon…in return for what she wanted.

"They're protected, no argument," Alistair reiterated firmly. "No crow within Denerim City is to be harmed, punishable at the King's – _my – _pleasure."

Kylon gave the black bird one last, distrustful stare before handing Alistair the first of his discarded armour pieces. "Well…Your Majesty…folk do say strange things about them. Like how they're…better behaved than outside the city. Intelligent even."

"Oh?" Alistair asked casually.

"Personally, I think it's a load of bollocks," Kylon admitted. "A bird's a bird. And the General's statue in the town square still needs cleaning every month because they _are_. Though…" Kylon frowned again. "Why the General's statue in particular gets covered in bird droppings and not Andraste's likeness on the other side…"

"Divine intervention perhaps?" Alistair offered kindly, trying not to laugh.

The Captain sniffed. "S'not my job to scrape it all off, so I don't care." Kylon paused, giving his king's armour a quick assessment to make sure everything had been fastened correctly. "Are we heading back to the palace direct Your Majesty? Or are you expected to stay longer in the Alienage?"

"Slight detour to Bodahn's Cheese and Antique Emporium then home, Kylon," Alistair informed him. "For now."

Captain Kylon nodded. "Understood, Your Majesty. I'll let the men know."

Alistair waited until Kylon was out of earshot then turned to the crow still perched on the pitted stone wall of the bridge. He waggled his finger at it. "Behave now," he warned it. The crow eyed him beadily a moment then, tossing its beak into the air, took flight. It was gone in seconds, dwindling to barely a speck in the clear summer sky. He watched it go until even the black dot was no longer visible. He took a step forward then…_splat! _A glob of gooey white grossness spattered the toe of his boot.

He sighed, flicking his foot.

She always did manage to have the last word, he thought, continuing on.

- END -

And that is the end of our five stories. Ahem. As it says above. Thank you to all of you who have followed this odd piece of work; those of you who have reviewed, faved, watched, lurked or just passed through. Your patience as these chapters dribbled through in odd fits and starts has been most appreciated, as have your wonderful and encouraging comments. When I first drew the girls out of my head onto paper, I certainly never expected them to have taken quite the hold on me as they have. Letting go of them has been almost as difficult as writing them at times (!)

I'll also leave it to you to interpret the ending in any way that you like.

Thank you for joining me.

_Champion the Wonder Snail._


End file.
